William Henshaw, coming unobserved upon one such group, paused a moment to smile at the various more or less disconnected comments.
"What a lovely blue!" "Marvellous color sense!" "Now those shadows are--" "He gets his high lights so--" "I declare, she looks just like Blanche Payton!" "Every line there is full of meaning." "I suppose it's very fine, but--" "Now, I say, Henshaw is--" "Is this by the man that's painting Margy Winthrop's portrait ?" "It's idealism, man, idealism!" "I'm going to have a dress just that shade of blue." "Isn't that just too sweet!" "Now for realism, I consider Henshaw--" "There aren't many with his sensitive, brilliant touch." "Oh, what a pretty picture!" William moved on then.
Billy was rapturously proud of Bertram that evening.

He was, of course, the centre of congratulations and hearty praise.

At his side, Billy, with sparkling eyes, welcomed each smiling congratulation and gloried in every commendatory word she heard.
"Oh, Bertram, isn't it splendid! I'm so proud of you," she whispered softly, when a moment's lull gave her opportunity.
"They're all words, words, idle words," he laughed; but his eyes shone.
"Just as if they weren't all true!" she bridled, turning to greet William, who came up at that moment.

"Isn't it fine, Uncle William ?" she beamed.

"And aren't we proud of him ?" "We are, indeed," smiled the man.