“Laws! But it's good to be seein' you here again,” stammered the man,--delight now in sole possession. “She'll be coming to stay, one of these days, Pete,” smiled the eldest Henshaw, hurrying forward. “I wish she had now,” whispered Bertram, who, in spite of William's quick stride, had reached Billy's side first. From the stairway came the patter of a man's slippered feet. “The rug has come, and the curtains, too,” called a “householder” sort of voice that few would have recognized as belonging to Cyril Henshaw. “You must all come up-stairs and see them after dinner.” The voice, apparently, spoke to everybody; but the eyes of the owner of the voice plainly saw only the fair-haired young woman who stood a little in the shadow behind Billy, and who was looking about her now as at something a little fearsome, but very dear. “You know--I've never been--where you live--before,” explained Marie Hawthorn in a low, vibrant tone, when Cyril bent over her to take the furs from her shoulders. In Bertram's den a little later, as hosts and guests advanced toward the fire, the sleek gray cat rose, stretched lazily, and turned her head with majestic condescension. “Well, Spunkie, come here,” commanded Billy, snapping her fingers at the slow-moving creature on the hearthrug. “Spunkie, when I am your mistress, you'll have to change either your name or your nature. As if I were going to have such a bunch of independent moderation as you masquerading as an understudy to my frisky little Spunk!” Everybody laughed. William regarded his namesake with fond eyes as he said: “Spunkie doesn't seem to be worrying.” The cat had jumped into Billy's lap with a matter-of-course air that was unmistakable--and to Bertram, adorable. Bertram's eyes, as they rested on Billy, were even fonder than were his brother's. “I don't think any one is--_worrying_,” he said with quiet emphasis. Billy smiled. “I should think they might be,” she answered. “Only think how dreadfully upsetting I was in the first place!” William's beaming face grew a little stern. “Nobody knew it but Kate--and she didn't _know_ it; she only imagined it,” he said tersely. Billy shook her head. “I'm not so sure,” she demurred. “As I look back at it now, I think I can discern a few evidences myself--that I was upsetting. I was a bother to Bertram in his painting, I am sure.” “You were an inspiration,” corrected Bertram. “Think of the posing you did for me.” A swift something like a shadow crossed Billy's face; but before her lover could question its meaning, it was gone. “And I know I was a torment to Cyril.” Billy had turned to the musician now. “Well, I admit you were a little--upsetting, at times,” retorted that individual, with something of his old imperturbable rudeness. “Nonsense!” cut in William, sharply. “You were never anything but a comfort in the house, Billy, my dear--and you never will be.”