“Humph! Well, dearie, I don't know yet what you found, but I do know you wouldn't have found it at all if it hadn't been for Kate--and I wish I had her here this minute!” Billy giggled hysterically. “I don't--not _right_ here,” she cooed, nestling comfortably against her lover's arm. “But you see, dear, she never _has_ approved of the marriage.” “Well, who's doing the marrying--she, or I?” “That's what I said, too--only in another way,” sighed Billy. “But she called us flyaway flutterbudgets, and she said I'd ruin your career, if I did marry you.” “Well, I can tell you right now, Billy, you will ruin it if you don't!” declared Bertram. “That's what ailed me all the time I was painting that miserable portrait. I was so worried--for fear I'd lose you.” “Lose me! Why, Bertram Henshaw, what do you mean?” A shamed red crept to the man's forehead. “Well, I suppose I might as well own up now as any time. I was scared blue, Billy, with jealousy of--Arkwright.” Billy laughed gayly--but she shifted her position and did not meet her lover's eyes. “Arkwright? Nonsense!” she cried. “Why, he's going to marry Alice Greggory. I know he is! I can see it as plain as day in her letters. He's there a lot.” “And you never did think for a minute, Billy, that you cared for him?” Bertram's gaze searched Billy's face a little fearfully. He had not been slow to mark that swift lowering of her eyelids. But Billy looked him now straight in the face--it was a level, frank gaze of absolute truth. “Never, dear,” she said firmly. (Billy was so glad Bertram had turned the question on _her_ love instead of Arkwright's!) “There has never really been any one but you.” “Thank God for that,” breathed Bertram, as he drew the bright head nearer and held it close. After a minute Billy stirred and sighed happily. “Aren't lovers the beat'em for imagining things?” she murmured. “They certainly are.” “You see--I wasn't in love with Mr. Arkwright.” “I see--I hope.” “And--and you didn't care _specially_ for--for Miss Winthrop?” “Eh? Well, no!” exploded Bertram. “Do you mean to say you really--” Billy put a soft finger on his lips. “Er--'people who live in _glass houses_,' you know,” she reminded him, with roguish eyes. Bertram kissed the finger and subsided. “Humph!” he commented. There was a long silence; then, a little breathlessly, Billy asked: “And you don't--after all, love me--just to paint?” “Well, what is that? Is that Kate, too?” demanded Bertram, grimly. Billy laughed. “No--oh, she said it, all right, but, you see, _everybody_ said that to me, Bertram; and that's what made me so--so worried sometimes when you talked about the tilt of my chin, and all that.” “Well, by Jove!” breathed Bertram. There was another silence. Then, suddenly, Bertram stirred. “Billy, I'm going to marry you to-morrow,” he announced decisively. Billy lifted her head and sat back in palpitating dismay. “Bertram! What an absurd idea!”