“Oh!” Bertram got to his feet a little abruptly, and held out his hand. “Well, then, I might as well say good-by then, I suppose,” he suggested with a laugh that Aunt Hannah thought was a bit forced. Before she could remind him again, though, that Billy was really not to blame for not being there to welcome him, he was gone. And Aunt Hannah could only go up-stairs and meditate on the unreasonableness of lovers in general, and of Bertram in particular. Aunt Hannah had gone to bed, but she was still awake, when Billy came home, so she heard the automobile come to a stop before the door, and she called to Billy when the girl came upstairs. “Billy, dear, come in here. I'm awake! I want to hear about it. Was it good?” Billy stopped in the doorway. The light from the hall struck her face. There was no brightness in her eyes now, no pink in her cheeks. “Oh, yes, it was good--very good,” she replied listlessly. “Why, Billy, how queer you answer! What was the matter? Wasn't Mary Jane--all right?” “Mary Jane? Oh!--oh, yes; he was very good, Aunt Hannah.” “'Very good,' indeed!” echoed the lady, indignantly. “He must have been!--when you speak as if you'd actually forgotten that he sang at all, anyway!” Billy had forgotten--almost. Billy had found that, in spite of her getting away from the house, she had not got away from herself once, all day. She tried now, however, to summon her acting powers of the morning. “But it was splendid, really, Aunt Hannah,” she cried, with some show of animation. “And they clapped and cheered and gave him any number of curtain calls. We were so proud of him! But you see, I _am_ tired,” she broke off wearily. “You poor child, of course you are, and you look like a ghost! I won't keep you another minute. Run along to bed. Oh--Bertram didn't go to that banquet, after all. He came here,” she added, as Billy turned to go. “Bertram!” The girl wheeled sharply. “Yes. He wanted you, of course. I found I didn't do, at all,” chuckled Aunt Hannah. “Did you suppose I would?” There was no answer. Billy had gone. In the long night watches Billy fought it out with herself. (Billy had always fought things out with herself.) She must go away. She knew that. Already Bertram had telephoned, and called. He evidently meant to see her--and she could not see him. She dared not. If she did--Billy knew now how pitifully little it would take to make her actually _willing_ to slay Bertram's Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and be a nuisance generally--if only she could have Bertram while she was doing it all. Sternly then she asked herself if she had no pride; if she had forgotten that it was because of her that the Winthrop portrait had not been a success--because of her, either for the reason that he loved now Miss Winthrop, or else that he loved no girl--except to paint. Very early in the morning a white-faced, red-eyed Billy appeared at Aunt Hannah's bedside. “Billy!” exclaimed Aunt Hannah, plainly appalled.