“Did it work! It worked too well. Marie gave me one horrified look, then at once and immediately she became possessed with the idea that she _was_ a dowdy woman. And from that day to this she has pursued every lurking wrinkle and every fold awry, until her dressmaker's life isn't worth the living; and I'm beginning to think mine isn't, either, for I have to assure her at least four times every day now that she is _not_ a dowdy woman.” “You poor dear,” laughed Bertram. “No wonder you don't have time to give to me!” A peculiar expression crossed Billy's face. “Oh, but I'm not the _only_ one who, at times, is otherwise engaged, sir,” she reminded him. “What do you mean?” “There was yesterday, and last Monday, and last week Wednesday, and--” “Oh, but you _let_ me off, then,” argued Bertram, anxiously. “And you said--” “That I didn't wish to interfere with your work--which was quite true,” interrupted Billy in her turn, smoothly. “By the way,”--Billy was examining her stitches very closely now--“how is Miss Winthrop's portrait coming on?” “Splendidly!--that is, it _was_, until she began to put off the sittings for her pink teas and folderols. She's going to Washington next week, too, to be gone nearly a fortnight,” finished Bertram, gloomily. “Aren't you putting more work than usual into this one--and more sittings?” “Well, yes,” laughed Bertram, a little shortly. “You see, she's changed the pose twice already.” “Changed it!” “Yes. Wasn't satisfied. Fancied she wanted it different.” “But can't you--don't you have something to say about it?” “Oh, yes, of course; and she claims she'll yield to my judgment, anyhow. But what's the use? She's been a spoiled darling all her life, and in the habit of having her own way about everything. Naturally, under those circumstances, I can't expect to get a satisfactory portrait, if she's out of tune with the pose. Besides, I will own, so far her suggestions have made for improvement--probably because she's been happy in making them, so her expression has been good.” Billy wet her lips. “I saw her the other night,” she said lightly. (If the lightness was a little artificial Bertram did not seem to notice it.) “She is certainly--very beautiful.” “Yes.” Bertram got to his feet and began to walk up and down the little room. His eyes were alight. On his face the “painting look” was king. “It's going to mean a lot to me--this picture, Billy. In the first place I'm just at the point in my career where a big success would mean a lot--and where a big failure would mean more. And this portrait is bound to be one or the other from the very nature of the thing.” “I-is it?” Billy's voice was a little faint. “Yes. First, because of who the sitter is, and secondly because of what she is. She is, of course, the most famous subject I've had, and half the artistic world knows by this time that Marguerite Winthrop is being done by Henshaw. You can see what it'll be--if I fail.” “But you won't fail, Bertram!”