it. A little couple from
South Boston, to whom Billy had given a two weeks' outing the summer
before, had moved into town and taken a flat in the South End. They had
two extra rooms which they had told Billy they would like to let for
light house-keeping, if only they knew just the right people to take
into such close quarters with themselves. Billy at once thought of the
Greggorys, and spoke of them. The little couple were delighted, and the
Greggorys were scarcely less so when they at last became convinced that
only a very little more money than they were already paying would give
themselves a much pleasanter home, and would at the same time be a real
boon to two young people who were trying to meet expenses. So the change
was made, and general happiness all round had resulted--so much so, that
Bertram had said to Billy, when he heard of it:

"It looks as if this was a case where your cake is frosted on both
sides."

"Nonsense! This isn't frosting--it's business," Billy had laughed.

"And the new pupils you have found for Miss Alice--they're business,
too, I suppose?"

"Certainly," retorted Billy, with decision. Then she had given a low
laugh and said: "Mercy! If Alice Greggory thought it was anything _but_
business, I verily believe she would refuse every one of the new pupils,
and begin to-night to carry back the tables and chairs herself to those
wretched rooms she left last month!"

Bertram had smiled, but the smile had been a fleeting one, and the
brooding look of gloom that Billy had noticed so frequently, of late,
had come back to his eyes.

Billy was not a little disturbed over Bertram these days. He did not
seem to be his natural, cheery self at all. He talked little, and what
he did say seldom showed a trace of his usually whimsical way of putting
things. He was kindness itself to her, and seemed particularly anxious
to please her in every way; but she frequently found his eyes fixed on
her with a sombre questioning that almost frightened her. The more she
thought of it, the more she wondered what the question was, that he did
not dare to ask; and whether it was of herself or himself that he would
ask it--if he did dare. Then, with benumbing force, one day, a possible
solution of the mystery came to her, he had found out that it was true
(what all his friends had declared of him)--he did not really love any
girl, except to paint!

The minute this thought came to her, Billy thrust it indignantly away.