Townsend interrupted. “Of course I remember,” he said, with a very plausible imitation of heartiness. “How are you, young man? I understand you’ve got to be what they call an artist. Esther says you have painted a picture of her that does everything but walk around and talk. She praised it up so that I had to come and see it for myself. Not that I know much about such things.... This it, eh?... Humph! Well, I declare!” He had walked over and was standing before the easel. His niece joined him and looked anxiously from his face to the portrait and back again. Griffin, still dazed, looked at his visitors. Foster Townsend whistled. “Good enough!” he exclaimed. “Well, well! Yes, indeed! Good enough!” Esther asked a question. “You like it, Uncle Foster?” she queried, anxiously. “Do you really like it?” He nodded. “Certainly I like it,” he said. “How could I help liking it? For a thing that isn’t a photograph it is mighty good, I should say. That dress, now. Why, that’s just the way that dress looked on you, Esther. Yes, it is.” “But the likeness, Uncle Foster? Don’t you think it _looks_ like me?” He jingled the change in his pocket. “Why, yes,” he admitted, though with not quite the same heartiness. “It does look like you--considerably. It’s just hand-done, of course, and you can’t expect a hand-done thing to be like a photograph. But I should know who it was meant for. Honest, I should,” he added, as if with some surprise at the truth of the concession. Esther was disappointed. “Why, Uncle Foster!” she protested. “I think it is the very image of me.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that, quite,” he observed. “It isn’t as good looking as you are. I’m right there, eh, Griffin? Doesn’t flatter her, does it?” Bob spoke for the first time. He seemed to be in hearty accord. “You bet it doesn’t!” he agreed, with emphasis. “I’m not satisfied with it, of course.” “Why, Bob Griffin!” cried Esther. “How can you say that? You told me yourself you thought it was awfully good.” “Well, I--I think it is pretty fair, considering who painted it; but Captain Townsend is right when he says it doesn’t do you justice. I knew that all along.” Townsend may have thought the conversation had proceeded far enough on this line. He stepped back from before the easel and turned to the artist. “It’s a good job, anyhow,” he vowed. “I’ll be glad to have it. Now then, young fellow, how much do you want for it? What is the price?” Bob Griffin looked at Esther and she at him. She answered the question. “Why, there isn’t any price,” she said. “Bob has given it to me and I am giving it to you, for your birthday present, Uncle Foster. I told you that before we came down here.” Her uncle paid no attention to this. He jingled his change and repeated his inquiry. “How much will it be, Griffin?” he asked. Bob smilingly shook his head. “Esther has told you, sir,” he said. “I gave it to her. There isn’t any price.”