Bertram sniffed imperturbably.

``I'm not sure but I'd like to crush Marie,''
he alleged.

``Bertram!''

``I can't help it. See here, Billy.'' He loosened
his clasp and held the girl off at arm's length,
regarding her with stormy eyes. ``It's Marie,
Marie, Marie--always. If I telephone in the
morning, you've gone shopping with Marie.
If I want you in the afternoon for something,
you're at the dressmaker's with Marie. If I call
in the evening--''

``I'm here,'' interrupted Billy, with decision.

``Oh, yes, you're here,'' admitted Bertram,
aggrievedly, ``and so are dozens of napkins,
miles of table-cloths, and yards upon yards of
lace and flummydiddles you call `doilies.' They
all belong to Marie, and they fill your arms and
your thoughts full, until there isn't an inch of
room for me. Billy, when is this thing going to
end?''

Billy laughed softly. Her eyes danced.