Mr. Brewster gulped.
“Do you mean to say–?”
“I mean, apt to make a fellow feel a bit of a patriarch. Snowy hair and what not. And, of course, for a chappie in the prime of life like you–”
“Do you mean to tell me–? Is this true?”
“Absolutely! Of course, speaking for myself, I’m all for it. I don’t know when I’ve felt more bucked. I sang as I came up here– absolutely warbled in the elevator. But you–”
A curious change had come over Mr. Brewster. He was one of those men who have the appearance of having been hewn out of the solid rock, but now in some indescribable way he seemed to have melted. For a moment he gazed at Archie, then, moving quickly forward, he grasped his hand in an iron grip.
“This is the best news I’ve ever had!” he mumbled.
“Awfully good of you to take it like this,” said Archie cordially. “I mean, being a grandfather–”
Mr. Brewster smiled. Of a man of his appearance one could hardly say that be smiled playfully; but there was something in his expression that remotely suggested playfulness.
“My dear old bean,” he said.
Archie started.
“My dear old bean,” repeated Mr. Brewster firmly, “I’m the happiest man in America!” His eye fell on the picture which lay on the floor. He gave a slight shudder, but recovered himself immediately. “After this,” he said, “I can reconcile myself to living with that thing for the rest of my life. I feel it doesn’t matter.”
“I say,” said Archie, “how about that? Wouldn’t have brought the thing up if you hadn’t introduced the topic, but, speaking as man to man, what the dickens WERE you up to when I landed on your spine just now?”
“I suppose you thought I had gone off my head?”
“Well, I’m bound to say–”
Mr. Brewster cast an unfriendly glance at the picture.
“Well, I had every excuse, after living with that infernal thing for a week!”
Archie looked at him, astonished.
“I say, old thing, I don’t know if I have got your meaning exactly, but you somehow give me the impression that you don’t like that jolly old work of Art.”
“Like it!” cried Mr. Brewster. “It’s nearly driven me mad! Every time it caught my eye, it gave me a pain in the neck. To-night I felt as if I couldn’t stand it any longer. I didn’t want to hurt Lucille’s feelings, by telling her, so I made up my mind I would cut the damned thing out of its frame and tell her it had been stolen.”
“What an extraordinary thing! Why, that’s exactly what old Wheeler did.”
“Who is old Wheeler?”
“Artist chappie. Pal of mine. His fiancee painted the thing, and, when I lifted it off him, he told her it had been stolen. HE didn’t seem frightfully keen on it, either.”
“Your friend Wheeler has evidently good taste.”
Archie was thinking.
“Well, all this rather gets past me,” he said. “Personally, I’ve always admired the thing. Dashed ripe bit of work, I’ve always considered. Still, of course, if you feel that way–”
“You may take it from me that I do!”
“Well, then, in that case–You know what a clumsy devil I am–You can tell Lucille it was all my fault–”
The Wigmore Venus smiled up at Archie–it seemed to Archie with a pathetic, pleading smile. For a moment he was conscious of a feeling of guilt; then, closing his eyes and hardening his heart, he sprang lightly in the air and descended with both feet on the picture. There was a sound of rending canvas, and the Venus ceased to smile.
“Golly!” said Archie, regarding the wreckage remorsefully.
Mr. Brewster did not share his remorse. For the second time that night he gripped him by the hand.
“My boy!” he quavered. He stared at Archie as if he were seeing him with new eyes. “My dear boy, you were through the war, were you not?”
“Eh? Oh yes! Right through the jolly old war.”
“What was your rank?”
“Oh, second lieutenant.”
“You ought to have been a general!” Mr. Brewster clasped his hand once more in a vigorous embrace. “I only hope,” he added “that your son will be like you!”