He did. And for two minutes there I listens to the clock tick and
watches the old sport's white whiskers grow bristly. Then comes the
Bladens. He waves 'em to a parade rest opposite me.

"What is it, Uncle Jeff?" says Mrs. Bladen, sort of anxious. And with
that I begins to piece out the puzzle. This was Uncle Jeff, eh, the
one with the bank account?

"So," he explodes, like openin' a bottle of root beer, "you've gone
back to your paint daubing, have you? And you're actually trying to
sell your namby-pamby stuff on my top floor? Come now, Edith, let's
hear you squirm out of that!"

Considerable fussed, Edith is. No wonder! After one glance at me she
flushes up and begins twistin' the yellow silk cord nervous; but
nothin' in the way of a not guilty plea seems to occur to her. As for
Hubby, he blinks them mild eyes of his a couple of times, and then
stands there placid with both hands in the pockets of his velvet coat,
showin' no deep emotion at all.

"It's so, isn't it?" demands Uncle.

"Ye-e-es, Uncle Jeff," admits Edith. "But poor Brooks could do nothing
else, you know. If he'd taken a studio outside, you would have wanted
to know where he was. And those rooms were not in use. Really, what
else could he do?"

"Mean to tell me he couldn't get along without puttering around with
those fool paints and brushes?" snorts Uncle Jeff.