Billy began to talk then very brightly of Aunt Hannah and her shawls, and of a visit she had made to Cyril and Marie that morning. “And, do you know? Aunt Hannah's clock _has_ done a good turn, at last, and justified its existence. Listen,” she cried gayly. “Marie had a letter from her mother's Cousin Jane. Cousin Jane couldn't sleep nights, because she was always lying awake to find out just what time it was; so Marie had written her about Aunt Hannah's clock. And now this Cousin Jane has fixed _her_ clock, and she sleeps like a top, just because she knows there'll never be but half an hour that she doesn't know what time it is!” Bertram smiled, and murmured a polite “Well, I'm sure that's fine!”; but the words were plainly abstracted, and the frown had not left his brow. Nor did it quite leave till some time later, when Billy, in answer to a question of his about another operetta, cried, with a shudder: “Mercy, I hope not, dear! I don't want to _hear_ the word 'operetta' again for a year!” Bertram smiled, then, broadly. He, too, would be quite satisfied not to hear the word “operetta” for a year. Operetta, to Bertram, meant interruptions, interferences, and the constant presence of Arkwright, the Greggorys, and innumerable creatures who wished to rehearse or to change wigs--all of which Bertram abhorred. No wonder, therefore, that he smiled, and that the frown disappeared from his brow. He thought he saw, ahead, serene, blissful days for Billy and himself. As the days, however, began to pass, one by one, Bertram Henshaw found them to be anything but serene and blissful. The operetta, with its rehearsals and its interruptions, was gone, certainly; but he was becoming seriously troubled about Billy. Billy did not act natural. Sometimes she seemed like her old self; and he breathed more freely, telling himself that his fears were groundless. Then would come the haunting shadow to her eyes, the droop to her mouth, and the nervousness to her manner that he so dreaded. Worse yet, all this seemed to be connected in some strange way with Arkwright. He found this out by accident one day. She had been talking and laughing brightly about something, when he chanced to introduce Arkwright's name. “By the way, where is Mary Jane these days?” he asked then. “I don't know, I'm sure. He hasn't been here lately,” murmured Billy, reaching for a book on the table. At a peculiar something in her voice, he had looked up quickly, only to find, to his great surprise, that her face showed a painful flush as she bent over the book in her hand.