Roger found himself being welcomed by a youngish, shrewd-looking woman with a cold, discontented face. Beatrice’s mother was merely a type--one of the kind the development of great fortunes is turning out by the score in every city and large town from New York to San Francisco: an indefatigable and not unintelligent seeker after the correct aristocratic pose. She was in simple black velvet. Her graying hair made her too-sharp face softer and more youthful. Her figure was as slim and straight as her daughter’s, though not without evidences of toil and corset manipulation to give it that girlish appearance. Peter Vanderkief--Hanky--was beside her. “So, you are really here?” she said cordially to Roger, as she gave him a warm hand clasp and the smile of an old friend. “I can hardly believe my own eyes.” “Impossible to resist,” said Roger. “It’s indeed a pleasure to see you again. How d’ye do, Mr. Vanderkief?” Vanderkief forced a smile to his lips and extended a tardy hand. But his brow remained sullen--not the sullenness of suspicion now, but of jealousy. “How is the picture coming on?” asked Mrs. Richmond of Roger. “Oh, you know how those things go with me,” was Roger’s subtly noncommittal reply. “I remember,” laughed Mrs. Richmond. “You are the true artist. You’re to take in Beatrice. She tells me you still have your old horror of strangers.” “Not horror--shyness,” protested Roger, with no more shyness or suggestion of it than a well-brought-up child. Then a small, slim, dark man--obviously a Continental foreigner--joined the group. In dress and bearing he was a most elegant-looking person--or, rather, personage. His fine, sensitive face was exceedingly handsome. “Ah, my dear Wade!” cried he, pronouncing the name as if it were spelled Vahd. Roger’s face lighted up. “D’Artois!” exclaimed he, and they shook hands with enthusiasm. “How are you in this country without my hearing of it?” said Count d’Artois. “I’d not have believed one so famous could move about quietly.” Mrs. Richmond and Beatrice--and Hank--were intensely interested spectators and listeners. D’Artois turned to Mrs. Richmond. “Vahd must be extremely fond of you, that you are able to get him. In Paris they run after him in vain. He keeps himself hidden.” Mrs. Richmond smiled nervously. Peter stared despondently at the big man thus suddenly disclosed as a great man. As for Beatrice, her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed proudly. Roger’s expression was good-natured tolerance, perhaps touched with annoyance. Dinner was announced and Beatrice took his arm. “I might have known!” she exclaimed, gazing up at him. He reddened and frowned. “Known what?” said he. “That you were famous.” “Trash!” observed Roger carelessly. “D’Artois is polite. Also, he is my friend.”