“Billy,” he cried suddenly, with his old boyish eagerness, “there's a glorious moon. Come on! Let's take a little walk--a real fellow-and-his-best-girl walk! Will you?” “Mercy! dear, I couldn't,” cried Billy springing to her feet. “I'd love to, though, if I could,” she added hastily, as she saw disappointment cloud her husband's face. “But I told Delia she might go out. It isn't her regular evening, of course, but I told her I didn't mind staying with Baby a bit. So I'll have to go right up now. She'll be going soon. But, dear, you go and take your walk. It'll do you good. Then you can come back and tell me all about it--only you must come in quietly, so not to wake the baby,” she finished, giving her husband an affectionate kiss, as she left the room. After a disconsolate five minutes of solitude, Bertram got his hat and coat and went out for his walk--but he told himself he did not expect to enjoy it. Bertram Henshaw knew that the old rebellious jealousy of the summer had him fast in its grip. He was heartily ashamed of himself, but he could not help it. He wanted Billy, and he wanted her then. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to tell her about a new portrait commission he had just obtained; and he wanted to ask her what she thought of the idea of a brand-new “Face of a Girl” for the Bohemian Ten Exhibition next March. He wanted--but then, what would be the use? She would listen, of course, but he would know by the very looks of her face that she would not be really thinking of what he was saying; and he would be willing to wager his best canvas that in the very first pause she would tell about the baby's newest tooth or latest toy. Not but that he liked to hear about the little fellow, of course; and not but that he was proud as Punch of him, too; but that he would like sometimes to hear Billy talk of something else. The sweetest melody in the world, if dinned into one's ears day and night, became something to be fled from. And Billy ought to talk of something else, too! Bertram, Jr., wonderful as he was, really was not the only thing in the world, or even the only baby; and other people--outsiders, their friends--had a right to expect that sometimes other matters might be considered--their own, for instance. But Billy seemed to have forgotten this. No matter whether the subject of conversation had to do with the latest novel or a trip to Europe, under Billy's guidance it invariably led straight to Baby's Jack-and-Jill book, or to a perambulator journey in the Public Garden. If it had not been so serious, it would have been really funny the way all roads led straight to one goal. He himself, when alone with Billy, had started the most unusual and foreign subjects, sometimes, just to see if there were not somewhere a little bypath that did not bring up in his own nursery. He never, however, found one.