never voluntarily
spoke of his painting. Over her now seemed to be hanging a vague horror.
Something was the matter. She knew that. But what it was she could
not fathom. She realized that Arkwright was trying to help, and her
gratitude, though silent, knew no bounds. Not even to Aunt Hannah or
Uncle William could she speak of this thing that was troubling her. That
they, too, understood, in a measure, she realized. But still she said no
word. Billy was wearing a proud little air of aloofness these days that
was heart-breaking to those who saw it and read it aright for what it
was: loyalty to Bertram, no matter what happened. And so Billy pored
over her chessboard feverishly, tirelessly, having ever before her
longing eyes the dear time when Bertram, across the table from her,
should sit happily staring for half an hour at a move she had made.

Whatever Billy's chess-playing was to signify, however, in her own life,
it was destined to play a part in the lives of two friends of hers that
was most unexpected.

During Billy's very first lesson, as it chanced, Alice Greggory called
and found Billy and Arkwright so absorbed in their game that they did
not at first hear Eliza speak her name.

The quick color that flew to Arkwright's face at sight of herself was
construed at once by Alice as embarrassment on his part at being found
tete-a-tete with Bertram Henshaw's wife. And she did not like
it. She was not pleased that he was there. She was less pleased that he
blushed for being there.

It so happened that Alice found him there again several times. Alice
gave a piano lesson at two o'clock every Tuesday and Friday afternoon to
a little Beacon Street neighbor of Billy's, and she had fallen into the
habit of stepping in to see Billy for a few minutes afterward, which
brought her there at a little past three, just after the chess lesson
was well started.

If, the first time that Alice Greggory found Arkwright opposite Billy at
the chess-table, she was surprised and displeased, the second and third
times she was much more so. When it finally came to her one day with
sickening illumination, that always the tete-a-tetes were
during Bertram's hour at the doctor's, she was appalled.

What could it mean? Had Arkwright given up his fight? Was he playing
false to himself and to Bertram by trying thus, on the sly, to win the
love of his friend's wife? Was this man, whom she had so admired for his
brave stand, and to whom all unask