artistic world knows by this time that Marguerite
Winthrop is being done by Henshaw. You can
see what it'll be--if I fail.''

``But you won't fail, Bertram!''

The artist lifted his chin and threw back his
shoulders.

``No, of course not; but--'' He hesitated,
frowned, and dropped himself into a chair. His
eyes studied the fire moodily. ``You see,'' he
resumed, after a moment, ``there's a peculiar,
elusive something about her expression--''
(Billy stirred restlessly and gave her thread so
savage a jerk that it broke)``--a something
that isn't easily caught by the brush. Anderson
and Fullam--big fellows, both of them--didn't
catch it. At least, I've understood that neither
her family nor her friends are satisfied with _their_
portraits. And to succeed where Anderson and
Fullam failed--Jove! Billy, a chance like that
doesn't come to a fellow twice in a lifetime!''
Bertram was out of his chair, again, tramping
up and down the little room.

Billy tossed her work aside and sprang to her
feet. Her eyes, too, were alight, now.

``But you aren't going to fail, dear,'' she cried,