spoke to everybody; but the eyes of the owner
of the voice plainly saw only the fair-haired young
woman who stood a little in the shadow behind
Billy, and who was looking about her now as at
something a little fearsome, but very dear.

``You know--I've never been--where you
live--before,'' explained Marie Hawthorn in a
low, vibrant tone, when Cyril bent over her to
take the furs from her shoulders.

In Bertram's den a little later, as hosts and
guests advanced toward the fire, the sleek gray
cat rose, stretched lazily, and turned her head
with majestic condescension.

``Well, Spunkie, come here,'' commanded Billy,
snapping her fingers at the slow-moving creature
on the hearthrug. ``Spunkie, when I am your
mistress, you'll have to change either your name
or your nature. As if I were going to have such
a bunch of independent moderation as you
masquerading as an understudy to my frisky little
Spunk!''

Everybody laughed. William regarded his
namesake with fond eyes as he said:

``Spunkie doesn't seem to be worrying.'' The
cat had jumped into Billy's lap with a matter-