For the first few minutes after the letter had been dropped into the green box at the corner, Billy held her head high, and told herself that the matter was now closed. She had sent Kate a courteous, dignified, conclusive, effectual answer, and she thought with much satisfaction of the things she had said. Very soon, however, she began to think--not so much of what _she_ had said--but of what Kate had said. Many of Kate's sentences were unpleasantly vivid in her mind. They seemed, indeed, to stand out in letters of flame, and they began to burn, and burn, and burn. These were some of them: “William says that Bertram has been completely out of fix over something, and as gloomy as an owl for weeks past.” “A woman is at the bottom of it--... you are that woman.” “You can't make him happy.” “Bertram never was--and never will be--a marrying man.” “Girls have never meant anything to him but a beautiful picture to paint. And they never will.” “Up to this winter he's always been a carefree, happy, jolly fellow, and you _know_ what beautiful work he has done. Never before has he tied himself to any one girl until last fall.” “Now what has it been since?” “He's been so moody, so irritable, so fretted over his work, so unlike himself; and his picture has failed, dismally.” “Do you want to ruin his career?” Billy began to see now that she had not really answered Kate's letter at all. The matter was not closed. Her reply had been, perhaps, courteous and dignified--but it had not been conclusive nor effectual. Billy had reached home now, and she was crying. Bertram _had_ acted strangely, of late. Bertram _had_ seemed troubled over something. His picture _had_--With a little shudder Billy tossed aside these thoughts, and dug at her teary eyes with a determined hand. Fiercely she told herself that the matter _was_ settled. Very scornfully she declared that it was “only Kate,” after all, and that she _would not_ let Kate make her unhappy again! Forthwith she picked up a current magazine and began to read. As it chanced, however, even here Billy found no peace; for the first article she opened to was headed in huge black type: “MARRIAGE AND THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT.” With a little cry Billy flung the magazine far from her, and picked up another. But even “The Elusiveness of Chopin,” which she found here, could not keep her thoughts nor her eyes from wandering to the discarded thing in the corner, lying ignominiously face down with crumpled, out-flung leaves. Billy knew that in the end she should go over and pick that magazine up, and read that article from beginning to end. She was not surprised, therefore, when she did it--but she was not any the happier for having done it.