He was also much interested in another piece of
work which he intended to show called ``The
Rose.'' The model for this was a beautiful young
girl he had found selling flowers with her father
in a street booth at the North End.

On the whole, Bertram was very happy these
days. He could not, to be sure, spend quite so
much time with Billy as he wished; but she
understood, of course, as did he, that his work must
come first. He knew that she tried to show him
that she understood it. At the same time, he
could not help thinking, occasionally, that Billy
did sometimes mind his necessary absorption in
his painting.

To himself Bertram owned that Billy was, in
some ways, a puzzle to him. Her conduct was
still erratic at times. One day he would seem to
be everything to her; the next--almost nothing,
judging by the ease with which she relinquished
his society and substituted that of some one else:
Arkwright, or Calderwell, for instance.

And that was another thing. Bertram was
ashamed to hint even to himself that he was
jealous of either of those men. Surely, after what
had happened, after Billy's emphatic assertion
that she had never loved any one but himself,
it would seem not only absurd, but disloyal, that