“N-nothing,” she gesticulated hurriedly. “It was nothing at all, truly.” “But, Billy, it _was_ something.” Bertram's eyes were still troubled. “Was it the picture? I thought you liked this picture.” Billy laughed again--this time more naturally. “Bertram, I'm ashamed of you--expecting me to say I 'like' any of this,” she scolded, with a wave of her hands toward the omnipresent Billy. “Why, I feel as if I were in a room with a thousand mirrors, and that I'd been discovered putting rouge on my cheeks and lampblack on my eyebrows!” William laughed fondly. Aunt Hannah and Marie gave an indulgent smile. Cyril actually chuckled. Bertram only still wore a puzzled expression as he laid aside the canvas in his hands. Billy examined intently a sketch she had found with its back to the wall. It was not a pretty sketch; it was not even a finished one, and Billy did not in the least care what it was. But her lips cried interestedly: “Oh, Bertram, what is this?” There was no answer. Bertram was still engaged, apparently, in putting away some sketches. Over by the doorway leading to the den Marie and Aunt Hannah, followed by William and Cyril, were just disappearing behind a huge easel. In another minute the merry chatter of their voices came from the room beyond. Bertram hurried then straight across the studio to the girl still bending over the sketch in the corner. “Bertram!” gasped Billy, as a kiss brushed her cheek. “Pooh! They're gone. Besides, what if they did see? Billy, what was the matter with the tilt of that chin?” Billy gave an hysterical little laugh--at least, Bertram tried to assure himself that it was a laugh, though it had sounded almost like a sob. “Bertram, if you say another word about--about the tilt of that chin, I shall _scream!_” she panted. “Why, Billy!” With a nervous little movement Billy turned and began to reverse the canvases nearest her. “Come, sir,” she commanded gayly. “Billy has been on exhibition quite long enough. It is high time she was turned face to the wall to meditate, and grow more modest.” Bertram did not answer. Neither did he make a move to assist her. His ardent gray eyes were following her slim, graceful figure admiringly. “Billy, it doesn't seem true, yet, that you're really mine,” he said at last, in a low voice shaken with emotion. Billy turned abruptly. A peculiar radiance shone in her eyes and glorified her face. As she stood, she was close to a picture on an easel and full in the soft glow of the shaded lights above it. “Then you _do_ want me,” she began, “--just _me!_--not to--” she stopped short. The man opposite had taken an eager step toward her. On his face was the look she knew so well, the look she had come almost to dread--the “painting look.”