writer of the article did not approve of marriage and the artistic
temperament. He said the artist belonged to his Art, and to posterity
through his Art. The essay fairly bristled with many-lettered words and
high-sounding phrases, few of which Billy really understood. She did
understand enough, however, to feel, guiltily, when the thing was
finished, that already she had married Bertram, and by so doing had
committed a Crime. She had slain Art, stifled Ambition, destroyed
Inspiration, and been a nuisance generally. In consequence of which
Bertram would henceforth and forevermore be doomed to Littleness.

Naturally, in this state of mind, and with this vision before her, Billy
was anything but her bright, easy self when she met Bertram an hour or
two later. Naturally, too, Bertram, still the tormented victim of the
bugaboo his jealous fears had fashioned, was just in the mood to
place the worst possible construction on his sweetheart's very evident
unhappiness. With sighs, unspoken questions, and frequently averted
eyes, therefore, the wretched evening passed, a pitiful misery to them
both.

During the days that followed, Billy thought that the world itself
must be in league with Kate, so often did she encounter Kate's letter
masquerading under some thin disguise. She did not stop to realize that
because she was so afraid she _would_ find it, she _did_ find it. In
the books she read, in the plays she saw, in the chance words she heard
spoken by friend or stranger--always there was something to feed her
fears in one way or another. Even in a yellowed newspaper that had
covered the top shelf in her closet she found one day a symposium
on whether or not an artist's wife should be an artist; and she
shuddered--but she read every opinion given.

Some writers said no, and some, yes; and some said it all depended--on
the artist and his wife. Billy found much food for thought, some for
amusement, and a little that made for peace of mind. On the whole
it opened up a new phase of the matter, perhaps. At all events, upon
finishing it she almost sobbed:

"One would think that just because I write a song now and then, I was
going to let Bertram starve, and go with holes in his socks and no
buttons on his clothes!"

It was that afternoon that Billy went to see Marie; but even there she
did not escape, for the gentle Marie all unknowingly added her mite to
the woeful whole.

Billy found Marie in tears.

"Why, Marie!" she crie