“I do--just you.” Bertram's eyes gave the caress his lips would have given had it not been for the presence of the man in the seat across the aisle of the sleeping-car. “And you--you know now that I love you--just you?” “Not even Arkwright?” “Not even Arkwright,” smiled Billy. There was the briefest of hesitations; then, a little constrainedly, Bertram asked: “And you said you--you never _had_ cared for Arkwright, didn't you?” For the second time in her life Billy was thankful that Bertram's question had turned upon _her_ love for Arkwright, not Arkwright's love for her. In Billy's opinion, a man's unrequited love for a girl was his secret, not hers, and was certainly one that the girl had no right to tell. Once before Bertram had asked her if she had ever cared for Arkwright, and then she had answered emphatically, as she did now: “Never, dear.” “I thought you said so,” murmured Bertram, relaxing a little. “I did; besides, didn't I tell you?” she went on airily, “I think he'll marry Alice Greggory. Alice wrote me all the time I was away, and--oh, she didn't say anything definite, I'll admit,” confessed Billy, with an arch smile; “but she spoke of his being there lots, and they used to know each other years ago, you see. There was almost a romance there, I think, before the Greggorys lost their money and moved away from all their friends.” “Well, he may have her. She's a nice girl--a mighty nice girl,” answered Bertram, with the unmistakably satisfied air of the man who knows he himself possesses the nicest girl of them all. Billy, reading unerringly the triumph in his voice, grew suddenly grave. She regarded her husband with a thoughtful frown; then she drew a profound sigh. “Whew!” laughed Bertram, whimsically. “So soon as this?” “Bertram!” Billy's voice was tragic. “Yes, my love.” The bridegroom pulled his face into sobriety; then Billy spoke, with solemn impressiveness. “Bertram, I don't know a thing about--cooking--except what I've been learning in Rosa's cook-book this last week.” Bertram laughed so loud that the man across the aisle glanced over the top of his paper surreptitiously. “Rosa's cook-book! Is that what you were doing all this week?” “Yes; that is--I tried so hard to learn something,” stammered Billy. “But I'm afraid I didn't--much; there were so many things for me to think of, you know, with only a week. I believe I _could_ make peach fritters, though. They were the last thing I studied.” Bertram laughed again, uproariously; but, at Billy's unchangingly tragic face, he grew suddenly very grave and tender. “Billy, dear, I didn't marry you to--to get a cook,” he said gently. Billy shook her head.