He was full of it himself.  Though he more than once apologized for talking of his grandson and his pleasure in the way “the boy” was throwing himself into the real merits of the problems presented to the new firm in Eastman, he kept returning to this fascinating subject.  It was not of interest to himself alone, and though Roberta only listened, Mrs. Stephen led him on, asking questions which he answered with eager readiness.  But all at once he pulled himself up short.

“Dick would be the first person to hush my garrulous old tongue,” said he.  “But I feel like father and mother and grandfather all combined, in the matter of his success.  I wouldn’t have you think his making good—­as they say in these days—­in the world I am used to is my only idea of success.  No, no, he has a world of his own besides.  I should like you to see—­there are several things I should like you to see.  Last winter Dick begged from me a portrait of his mother which I had done when he was a year old; she lived only six months after that.  He has it now over his desk.  His father’s portrait is on the opposite wall.  Should you care to step across the hall into my grandson’s rooms?  The portraits I speak of are in the second room of the suite.  Stop and examine anything else that interests you; I am sure he would be proud; and he has brought back many interesting things, principally pictures, from his travels.  I should like to go with you, but if you will be so kind—­”

There was no refusing the enthusiastic old man.  He sent his housekeeper to see that the rooms were open of window and ready for inspection, then waved his guests away.  Mrs. Stephen went with alacrity; Roberta followed more slowly, as if she somehow feared to go.  Of all the odd happenings!—­that she should be walking into Richard Kendrick’s own habitation, with all the intimate revelations it was bound to make to her.  She wondered what he would say if he knew.

The first room was precisely what she might have expected, quite obviously the apartment of a modern young man whose wishes lacked no opportunity to satisfy themselves.  The room was not in bad taste; on the contrary, its somewhat heavy furnishings had an air of dignity in harmony with an earlier day than that more ostentatious period in which the rest of the house had been fitted.  Upon its walls was a choice collection of pictures of various styles and schools of art, some of them unquestionably of much value.  At one end of the room stood a closed grand piano.  But, like the grandfather’s room, the place could not by any stretch of the imagination be called homelike, and to this fact Rosamond called her companion’s attention.

“It’s really very interesting,” said she, “and quite impressive, but I don’t wonder in the least at his saying that he had no home.  This might be a room in a fine hotel; there’s nothing to make you feel as if anybody really lives here, in spite of the beautiful paintings.  But Mr. Kendrick said the portraits were in the second room.”