They read and walked and talked together, to be sure, and Bertram's devotion to her lightest wish was beyond question; but more and more frequently these days Billy found him hovering over his sketches in his studio; and once, when he failed to respond to the dinner-bell, search revealed him buried in a profound treatise on “The Art of Foreshortening.” Then came the day when Billy, after an hour's vain effort to imprison within notes a tantalizing melody, captured the truant and rain down to the studio to tell Bertram of her victory. But Bertram did not seem even to hear her. True, he leaped to his feet and hurried to meet her, his face radiantly aglow; but she had not ceased to speak before he himself was talking. “Billy, Billy, I've been sketching,” he cried. “My hand is almost steady. See, some of those lines are all right! I just picked up a crayon and--” He stopped abruptly, his eyes on Billy's face. A vaguely troubled shadow crossed his own. “Did--did you--were you saying anything in--in particular, when you came in?” he stammered. For a short half-minute Billy looked at her husband without speaking. Then, a little queerly, she laughed. “Oh, no, nothing at all in _particular_,” she retorted airily. The next moment, with one of her unexpected changes of manner, she darted across the room, picked up a palette, and a handful of brushes from the long box near it. Advancing toward her husband she held them out dramatically. “And now paint, my lord, paint!” she commanded him, with stern insistence, as she thrust them into his hands. Bertram laughed shamefacedly. “Oh, I say, Billy,” he began; but Billy had gone. Out in the hall Billy was speeding up-stairs, talking fiercely to herself. “We'll, Billy Neilson Henshaw, it's come! Now behave yourself. _That was the painting look!_ You know what that means. Remember, he belongs to his Art before he does to you. Kate and everybody says so. And you--you expected him to tend to you and your silly little songs. Do you want to ruin his career? As if now he could spend all his time and give all his thoughts to you! But I--I just hate that Art!” “What did you say, Billy?” asked William, in mild surprise, coming around the turn of the balustrade in the hall above. “Were you speaking to me, my dear?” Billy looked up. Her face cleared suddenly, and she laughed--though a little ruefully. “No, Uncle William, I wasn't talking to you,” she sighed. “I was just--just administering first aid to the injured,” she finished, as she whisked into her own room. “Well, well, bless the child! What can she mean by that?” puzzled Uncle William, turning to go down the stairway.