perfumed the air, and brightened
the sombre richness of the old-time furnishings. Before the open fire in
the den a sleek gray cat--adorned with a huge ribbon bow the exact shade
of the roses (Bertram had seen to that!)--winked and blinked sleepy
yellow eyes. In Bertram's studio the latest "Face of a Girl" had made
way for a group of canvases and plaques, every one of which showed Billy
Neilson in one pose or another. Up-stairs, where William's chaos of
treasures filled shelves and cabinets, the place of honor was given to
a small black velvet square on which rested a pair of quaint Battersea
enamel mirror knobs. In Cyril's rooms--usually so austerely bare--a
handsome Oriental rug and several curtain-draped chairs hinted at
purchases made at the instigation of a taste other than his own.

When the doorbell rang Pete admitted the ladies with a promptness that
was suggestive of surreptitious watching at some window. On Pete's
face the dignity of his high office and the delight of the moment were
fighting for mastery. The dignity held firmly through Mrs. Stetson's
friendly greeting; but it fled in defeat when Billy Neilson stepped over
the threshold with a cheery "Good morning, Pete."

"Laws! But it's good to be seein' you here again," stammered the
man,--delight now in sole possession.

"She'll be coming to stay, one of these days, Pete," smiled the eldest
Henshaw, hurrying forward.

"I wish she had now," whispered Bertram, who, in spite of William's
quick stride, had reached Billy's side first.

From the stairway came the patter of a man's slippered feet.

"The rug has come, and the curtains, too," called a "householder" sort
of voice that few would have recognized as belonging to Cyril Henshaw.
"You must all come up-stairs and see them after dinner." The voice,
apparently, spoke to everybody; but the eyes of the owner of the voice
plainly saw only the fair-haired young woman who stood a little in the
shadow behind Billy, and who was looking about her now as at something a
little fearsome, but very dear.

"You know--I've never been--where you live--before," explained Marie
Hawthorn in a low, vibrant tone, when Cyril bent over her to take the
furs from her shoulders.

In Bertram's den a little later, as hosts and guests advanced toward
the fire, the sleek gray cat rose, stretched lazily, and turned her head
with majestic condescension.

"Well, Spunkie, come here," commanded Billy, snapping her fingers at
the sl