“'Woman-hater'--dear me, no! He was a woman-lover, always. As if his eternal 'Face of a Girl' didn't prove that! Bertram has always loved women--to paint. But as for his ever taking them seriously--why, Billy, what's the matter?” Billy had risen suddenly. “If you'll excuse me, please, just a few minutes,” Billy said very quietly. “I want to speak to Rosa in the kitchen. I'll be back--soon.” In the kitchen Billy spoke to Rosa--she wondered afterwards what she said. Certainly she did not stay in the kitchen long enough to say much. In her own room a minute later, with the door fast closed, she took from her table the photograph of Bertram and held it in her two hands, talking to it softly, but a little wildly. “I didn't listen! I didn't stay! Do you hear? I came to you. She shall not say anything that will make trouble between you and me. I've suffered enough through her already! And she doesn't _know_--she didn't know before, and she doesn't now. She's only imagining. I will not not--_not_ believe that you love me--just to paint. No matter what they say--all of them! I _will not!_” Billy put the photograph back on the table then, and went down-stairs to her guest. She smiled brightly, though her face was a little pale. “I wondered if perhaps you wouldn't like some music,” she said pleasantly, going straight to the piano. “Indeed I would!” agreed Mrs. Hartwell. Billy sat down then and played--played as Mrs. Hartwell had never heard her play before. “Why, Billy, you amaze me,” she cried, when the pianist stopped and whirled about. “I had no idea you could play like that!” Billy smiled enigmatically. Billy was thinking that Mrs. Hartwell would, indeed, have been surprised if she had known that in that playing were herself, the ride home, the luncheon, Bertram, and the girl--whom Bertram _did not love only to paint!_ CHAPTER XIII. CYRIL AND A WEDDING The twelfth was a beautiful day. Clear, frosty air set the blood to tingling and the eyes to sparkling, even if it were not your wedding day; while if it were-- It _was_ Marie Hawthorn's wedding day, and certainly her eyes sparkled and her blood tingled as she threw open the window of her room and breathed long and deep of the fresh morning air before going down to breakfast. “They say 'Happy is the bride that the sun shines on,'” she whispered softly to an English sparrow that cocked his eye at her from a neighboring tree branch. “As if a bride wouldn't be happy, sun or no sun,” she scoffed tenderly, as she turned to go down-stairs. As it happens, however, tingling blood and sparkling eyes are a matter of more than weather, or even weddings, as was proved a little later when the telephone bell rang. Kate answered the ring. “Hullo, is that you, Kate?” called a despairing voice. “Yes. Good morning, Bertram. Isn't this a fine day for the wedding?” “Fine! Oh, yes, I suppose so, though I must confess I haven't noticed it--and you wouldn't, if you had a lunatic on your hands.”