oing it.

She talked of the fine work he had done, and of the still finer work he
would yet do, when his arm was well. She told him how proud she was of
him, and she let him see how dear his Art was to her, and how badly she
would feel if she thought he had really lost all his interest in his
work and would never paint again. She questioned him about the new
portrait he was to begin as soon as his arm would let him; and she tried
to arouse his enthusiasm in the picture he had planned to show in the
March Exhibition of the Bohemian Ten, telling him that she was sure his
arm would allow him to complete at least one canvas to hang.

In none of this, however, did Bertram appear in the least interested.
The one thing, indeed, which he seemed not to want to talk about, was
his work; and he responded to her overtures on the subject with only
moody silence, or else with almost irritable monosyllables; all of which
not only grieved but surprised Billy very much. For, according to
the "Talk to Young Wives," she was doing exactly what the ideal,
sympathetic, interested-in-her-husband's-work wife should do.

When February came, bringing with it no change for the better, Billy was
thoroughly frightened. Bertram's arm plainly was not improving. He was
more gloomy and restless than ever. He seemed not to want to stay at
home at all; and Billy knew now for a certainty that he was spending
more and more time with Bob Seaver and "the boys."

Poor Billy! Nowhere could she look these days and see happiness. Even
the adored baby seemed, at times, almost to give an added pang. Had he
not become, according to the "Talk to Young Wives" that awful thing, a
_Wedge_? The Annex, too, carried its sting; for where was the need of
an overflow house for happiness now, when there was no happiness to
overflow? Even the little jade idol on Billy's mantel Billy could not
bear to see these days, for its once bland smile had become a hideous
grin, demanding, "Where, now, is your heap plenty velly good luckee?"

But, before Bertram, Billy still carried a bravely smiling face, and to
him still she talked earnestly and enthusiastically of his work--which
last, as it happened, was the worst course she could have pursued; for
the one thing poor Bertram wished to forget, just now, was--his work.

CHAPTER XXVIII. CONSPIRATORS

Early in February came Arkwright's appearance at the Boston Opera
House--the first since he had sung there as a student a few