his face into the shadow. Calderwell talked
on without pausing.

``No, I'm not in love with Billy. But Billy's
a trump. You know that.''

``I do.'' The words were low, but steadily
spoken.

``Of course you do! We all do. And we want
her happy. But as for her marrying Bertram--
you could have bowled me over with a soap bubble
when I heard she'd done it. Now understand:
Bertram is a good fellow, and I like him. I've
known him all his life, and he's all right. Oh, six
or eight years ago, to be sure, he got in with a set
of fellows--Bob Seaver and his clique--that
were no good. Went in for Bohemianism, and
all that rot. It wasn't good for Bertram. He's
got the confounded temperament that goes with
his talent, I suppose--though why a man can't
paint a picture, or sing a song, and keep his temper
and a level head I don't see!''

``He can,'' cut in Arkwright, with curt emphasis.

``Humph! Well, that's what I think. But,
about this marriage business. Bertram admires
a pretty face wherever he sees it--_to paint_, and
always has. Not but that he's straight as