ssing with the hang of her skirt.

"Bertram's dining out, Pete tells me," observed William, with cheerful
nonchalance, as they went down-stairs together.

Billy bit her lip and looked up sharply. She had been bracing herself to
meet with disdainful indifference this man's pity--the pity due a poor
neglected wife whose husband _preferred_ to dine with old classmates
rather than with herself. Now she found in William's face, not pity, but
a calm, even jovial, acceptance of the situation as a matter of course.
She had known she was going to hate that pity; but now, curiously
enough, she was conscious only of anger that the pity was not
there--that she might hate it.

She tossed her head a little. So even William--Uncle William--regarded
this monstrous thing as an insignificant matter of everyday experience.
Maybe he expected it to occur frequently--every night, or so. Doubtless
he did expect it to occur every night, or so. Indeed! Very well. As if
she were going to show _now_ that she cared whether Bertram were there
or not! They should see.

So with head held high and eyes asparkle, Billy marched into the
dining-room and took her accustomed place.

CHAPTER VII. THE BIG BAD QUARREL

It was a brilliant dinner--because Billy made it so. At first William
met her sallies of wit with mild surprise; but it was not long before
he rose gallantly to the occasion, and gave back full measure of retort.
Even Pete twice had to turn his back to hide a smile, and once his hand
shook so that the tea he was carrying almost spilled. This threatened
catastrophe, however, seemed to frighten him so much that his face was
very grave throughout the rest of the dinner.

Still laughing and talking gayly, Billy and Uncle William, after the
meal was over, ascended to the drawing-room. There, however, the man, in
spite of the young woman's gay badinage, fell to dozing in the big chair
before the fire, leaving Billy with only Spunkie for company--Spunkie,
who, disdaining every effort to entice her into a romp, only winked and
blinked stupid eyes, and finally curled herself on the rug for a nap.

Billy, left to her own devices, glanced at her watch.

Half-past seven! Time, almost, for Bertram to be coming. He had said
"dinner"; and, of course, after dinner was over he would be coming
home--to her. Very well; she would show him that she had at least got
along without him as well as he had without her. At all events he
would not find he