CHAPTER XXIX.
ROBERT'S TRIUMPH.
"Excellent claret, Latham, have a glass with
me," said the artist, Willard Frost.
"Thanks, not any; I have ordered a meal—been out rowing and it makes a fellow deucedly hungry."
It was by the merest accident that Marrion Latham and Willard Frost had taken seats at the same table, in one of New York's restaurants.
To the right of them, some distance away, there was a decorated table, covers laid for twelve. Pretty soon the party came in and took their seats.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Latham, "I wonder what's up. There's Robert Emmet Cooper, Fred Ryder, D. Kohler, and who is the one at the head of the table? Well, upon my word, it is Milburn."
"What does all this mean?" inquired Frost.
"That dinner is given to Mr. Milburn," said the waiter, "he is one of the acknowledged artists now."
"What! you don't tell me his 'Athlete' has been accepted by the Commissioners of the Art Palace?"
"That, sir, is what the judges decided."
