of himself. She had, very likely, been the clinging
vine when she should have been the sturdy
oak.

Very well, then. (Billy lifted her head and
threw back her shoulders.) He should have no
further cause for complaint. She would be an
oak. She would cultivate that comfortable
indifference to his comings and goings. She would
brush up against other interests and personalities
so as to be ``new'' and ``interesting'' to her
husband. She would not be tyrannical, exacting,
or jealous. She would not threaten scenes, nor
peer into recesses. Whatever happened, she
would not let Bertram begin to chafe against
those bonds!

Having arrived at this heroic and (to her)
eminently satisfactory state of mind, Billy turned
from the window and fell to work on a piece of
manuscript music.

`` `Brush up against other interests,' '' she
admonished herself sternly, as she reached for her
pen.

Theoretically it was beautiful; but practically--

Billy began at once to be that oak. Not an
hour after she had first seen the fateful notice of