Uncle William jerked himself awake, and Spunkie opened sleepy eyes. Then both settled themselves for another nap. Billy sighed, picked up her book, and flounced back into her chair. But she did not read. Disconsolately she sat staring straight ahead--until a quick step on the sidewalk outside stirred her into instant action. Assuming a look of absorbed interest she twitched the book open and held it before her face.... But the step passed by the door: and Billy saw then that her book was upside down. Five, ten, fifteen more minutes passed. Billy still sat, apparently reading, though she had not turned a page. The book now, however, was right side up. One by one other minutes passed till the great clock in the hall struck nine long strokes. “Well, well, bless my soul!” mumbled Uncle William, resolutely forcing himself to wake up. “What time was that?” “Nine o'clock.” Billy spoke with tragic distinctness, yet very cheerfully. “Eh? Only nine?” blinked Uncle William. “I thought it must be ten. Well, anyhow, I believe I'll go up-stairs. I seem to be unusually sleepy.” Billy said nothing. “'Only nine,' indeed!” she was thinking wrathfully. At the door Uncle William turned. “You're not going to sit up, my dear, of course,” he remarked. For the second time that evening a cold hand seemed to clutch Billy's heart. _Sit up!_ Had it come already to that? Was she even now a wife who had need to _sit up_ for her husband? “I really wouldn't, my dear,” advised Uncle William again. “Good night.” “Oh, but I'm not sleepy at all, yet,” Billy managed to declare brightly. “Good night.” Then Uncle William went up-stairs. Billy turned to her book, which happened to be one of William's on “Fake Antiques.” “'To collect anything, these days, requires expert knowledge, and the utmost care and discrimination,'” read Billy's eyes. “So Uncle William _expected_ Bertram was going to spend the whole evening as well as stay to dinner!” ran Billy's thoughts. “'The enormous quantity of bijouterie, Dresden and Battersea enamel ware that is now flooding the market, is made on the Continent--and made chiefly for the American trade,'” continued the book. “Well, who cares if it is,” snapped Billy, springing to her feet and tossing the volume aside. “Spunkie, come here! You've simply got to play with me. Do you hear? I want to be gay--_gay_--GAY! He's gay. He's down there with those men, where he wants to be. Where he'd _rather_ be than be with me! Do you think I want him to come home and find me moping over a stupid old book? Not much! I'm going to have him find me gay, too. Now, come, Spunkie; hurry--wake up! He'll be here right away, I'm sure.” And Billy shook a pair of worsted reins, hung with little soft balls, full in Spunkie's face.