three,'' nodded Miss Winthrop, with a smile, as
she turned to give place to an admiring group,
who were waiting to pay their respects to the
artist and his wife.

There was, after all, that evening, one fly in
Billy's ointment.

It fluttered in at the behest of an old
acquaintance--one of the ``advice women,'' as
Billy termed some of her too interested
friends.

``Well, they're lovely, perfectly lovely, of
course, Mrs. Henshaw,'' said this lady, coming up
to say good-night. ``But, all the samee{sic}, I'm
glad my husband is just a plain lawyer. Look
out, my dear, that while Mr. Henshaw is stealing
all those pretty faces for his canvases--just look
out that the fair ladies don't turn around and steal
his heart before you know it. Dear me, but you
must be so proud of him!''

``I am,'' smiled Billy, serenely; and only the
jagged split that rent the glove on her hand, at
that moment, told of the fierce anger behind that
smile.

``As if I couldn't trust Bertram!'' raged Billy
passionately to herself, stealing a surreptitious