said not to. He's been painting this morning on
a new portrait, and she said he might stay to
luncheon and keep right on for a while this
afternoon, if he liked. And--he did like, so he
stayed.''

``Why, how--how--'' Aunt Hannah stopped
helplessly.

``Oh, no, not at all,'' interposed Billy, lightly.
``He told me all about it the other night. It's
going to be a very wonderful portrait; and, of
course, I wouldn't want to interfere with--his
work!'' And again a brilliant scale rippled from
Billy's fingers after a crashing chord in the bass.

Slowly Aunt Hannah turned and went up-stairs.
Her eyes were troubled. Not since Billy's engagement
had she heard Billy play like that.

Bertram did not find a pensive Billy awaiting
him that evening. He found a bright-eyed,
flushed-cheeked Billy, who let herself be kissed
--once--but who did not kiss back; a blithe,
elusive Billy, who played tripping little melodies,
and sang jolly little songs, instead of sitting
before the fire and talking; a Billy who at last
turned, and asked tranquilly:

``Well, how did the picture go?''