But it was not funny; it was serious. Was this glorious gift on parenthood to which he had looked forward as the crowning joy of his existence, to be nothing but a tragedy that would finally wreck his domestic happiness? It could not be. It must not be. He must he patient, and wait.
Billy loved him. He was sure she did. By and by this obsession of motherhood, which had her so fast in its grasp, would relax. She would remember that her husband had rights as well as her child. Once again she would give him the companionship, love, and sympathetic interest so dear to him. Meanwhile there was his work.
He must bury himself in that. And fortunate, indeed, he was, he told himself, that he had something so absorbing.
It was at this point in his meditations that Bertram rounded a corner and came face to face with a man who stopped him short with a jovial:
``Isn't it--by George, it is Bertie Henshaw!
Well, what do you think of that for luck?--and me only two days home from `Gay Paree'!''
``Oh, Seaver! How are you? You _are_ a stranger!''
Bertram's voice and handshake were a bit more cordial than they would have been had he not at the moment been feeling so abused and forlorn. In the old days he had liked this Bob Seaver well. Seaver was an artist like himself, and was good company always. But Seaver and his crowd were a little too Bohemian for William's taste;and after Billy came, she, too, had objected to what she called ``that horrid Seaver man.'' In his heart, Bertram knew that there was good foundation for their objections, so he had avoided Seaver for a time; and for some years, now, the man had been abroad, somewhat to Bertram's relief. To-night, however, Seaver's genial smile and hearty friendliness were like a sudden burst of sunshine on a rainy day--and Bertram detested rainy days. He was feeling now, too, as if he had just had a whole week of them.
``Yes, I am something of a stranger here,''
nodded Seaver. ``But I tell you what, little old Boston looks mighty good to me, all the same.
Come on! You're just the fellow we want. I'm on my way now to the old stamping ground.
Come--right about face, old chap, and come with me!''
Bertram shook his head.
``Sorry--but I guess I can't, to-night,'' he sighed. Both gesture and words were unhesitating, but the voice carried the discontent of a small boy, who, while the sun is still shining, has been told to come into the house.
``Oh, rats! Yes, you can, too. Come on!
Lots of the old crowd will be there--Griggs, Beebe, Jack Jenkins, and Tully. We need you to complete the show.''
``Jack Jenkins? Is he here?'' A new eagerness had come into Bertram's voice.
``Sure! He came on from New York last night.
Great boy, Jenkins! Just back from Paris fairly covered with medals, you know.''
``Yes, so I hear. I haven't seen him for four years.''
``Better come to-night then.''
``No-o,'' began Bertram, with obvious reluctance. ``It's already nine o'clock, and--''
``Nine o'clock!'' cut in Seaver, with a broad grin. ``Since when has your limit been nine o'clock? I've seen the time when you didn't mind nine o'clock in the morning, Bertie! What's got-- Oh, I remember. I met another friend of yours in Berlin; chap named Arkwright--and say, he's some singer, you bet! You're going to hear of him one of these days. Well, he told me all about how you'd settled down now--son and heir, fireside bliss, pretty wife, and all the fixings. But, I say, Bertie, doesn't she let you out--_any_?''
``Nonsense, Seaver!'' flared Bertram in annoyed wrath.
``Well, then, why don't you come to-night?
If you want to see Jenkins you'll have to; he's going back to New York to-morrow.''
For only a brief minute longer did Bertram hesitate; then he turned squarely about with an air of finality.
``Is he? Well, then, perhaps I will,'' he said.
``I'd hate to miss Jenkins entirely.''
``Good!'' exclaimed his companion, as they fell into step. ``Have a cigar?''
``Thanks. Don't mind if I do.''
If Bertram's chin was a little higher and his step a little more decided than usual, it was all merely by way of accompaniment to his thoughts.
Certainly it was right that he should go, and it was sensible. Indeed, it was really almost imperative--due to Billy, as it were--after that disagreeable taunt of Seaver's. As if she did not want him to go when and where he pleased! As if she would consent for a moment to figure in the eyes of his friends as a tyrannical wife who objected to her husband's passing a social evening with his friends! To be sure, in this particular case, she might not favor Seaver's presence, but even she would not mind this once--and, anyhow, it was Jenkins that was the attraction, not Seaver. Besides, he himself was no undeveloped boy now. He was a man, presumedly able to take care of himself. Besides, again, had not Billy herself told him to go out and enjoy the evening without her, as she had to stay with the baby? He would telephone her, of course, that he had met some old friends, and that he might be late; then she would not worry.
And forthwith, having settled the matter in his mind, and to his complete satisfaction, Bertram gave his undivided attention to Seaver, who had already plunged into an account of a recent Art Exhibition he had attended in Paris.
