once more, quite beyond his reach, singing with
Arkwright and Alice Greggory, playing with
Tommy Dunn, plunging into some club or church
work--anything but being with him.

That all this was puzzling and disquieting to
Bertram, Billy not once suspected. Billy, so far
as she was concerned, was but cultivating a
comfortable indifference, brushing up against outside
interests, and being an oak.

December passed, and January came, bringing
Miss Marguerite Winthrop to her Boston home.
Bertram's arm was ``as good as ever'' now,
according to its owner; and the sittings for the new
portrait began at once. This left Billy even more
to her own devices, for Bertram entered into his
new work with an enthusiasm born of a glad relief
from forced idleness, and a consuming eagerness
to prove that even though he had failed the first
time, he could paint a portrait of Marguerite
Winthrop that would be a credit to himself, a
conclusive retort to his critics, and a source of
pride to his once mortified friends. With his
whole heart, therefore, he threw himself into the
work before him, staying sometimes well into the
afternoon on the days Miss Winthrop could find
time between her social engagements to give him
a sitting.