it's exactly what you said you wouldn't do--object--to his giving proper
time to his work."

"But I'm not objecting," stormed the other half of herself. "I'm
_telling_ him to do it. It's only that he's so--so _pleased_ to do it.
He doesn't seem to mind a bit being away from me. He's actually happy!"

"Well, don't you want him to be happy in his work? Fie! For shame! A
fine artist's wife you are. It seems Kate was right, then; you _are_
going to spoil his career!"

"Ho!" quoth Billy, and tossed her head. Forthwith she crossed the room
to her piano and plumped herself down hard on to the stool. Then, from
under her fingers there fell a rollicking melody that seemed to fill the
room with little dancing feet. Faster and faster sped Billy's fingers;
swifter and swifter twinkled the little dancing feet. Then a door was
jerked open, and Bertram's voice called:

"Billy!"

The music stopped instantly. Billy sprang from her seat, her
eyes eagerly seeking the direction from which had come the voice.
Perhaps--_perhaps_ Bertram wanted her. Perhaps he was not going to paint
any longer that morning, after all. "Billy!" called the voice again.
"Please, do you mind stopping that playing just for a little while? I'm
a brute, I know, dear, but my brush _will_ try to keep time with that
crazy little tune of yours, and you know my hand is none too steady,
anyhow, and when it tries to keep up with that jiggety, jig, jig,
jiggety, jig, jig--! _Do_ you mind, darling, just--just sewing, or
doing something still for a while?"

All the light fled from Billy's face, but her voice, when she spoke, was
the quintessence of cheery indifference.

"Why, no, of course not, dear."

"Thank you. I knew you wouldn't," sighed Bertram. Then the door shut.

For a long minute Billy stood motionless before she glanced at her watch
and sped to the telephone.

"Is Miss Greggory there, Rosa?" she called when the operator's ring was
answered.

"Mis' Greggory, the lame one?"

"No; _Miss_ Greggory--Miss Alice."

"Oh! Yes'm."

"Then won't you ask her to come to the telephone, please."

There was a moment's wait, during which Billy's small, well-shod foot
beat a nervous tattoo on the floor.

"Oh, is that you, Alice?" she called then. "Are you going to be home for
an hour or two?"

"Why, y-yes; yes, indeed."

"Then I'm coming over. We'll play duets, sing--anything. I want some
music."

"Do! And--Mr. Arkwright is here. He'll help."

"Mr. Arkwri