“The wedding, you know. For so many weeks we've been seeing just December twelfth, that we'd apparently forgotten all about the thirteenth that came after it; so when I got up this morning I felt just as you do when the clock has stopped ticking. But it was a lovely wedding, Mr. Arkwright. I'm sorry you could not be here.” “Thank you; so am I--though usually, I will confess, I'm not much good at attending 'functions' and meeting strangers. As perhaps you've guessed, Miss Neilson, I'm not particularly a society chap.” “Of course you aren't! People who are doing things--real things--seldom are. But we aren't the society kind ourselves, you know--not the capital S kind. We like sociability, which is vastly different from liking Society. Oh, we have friends, to be sure, who dote on 'pink teas and purple pageants,' as Cyril calls them; and we even go ourselves sometimes. But if you had been here yesterday, Mr. Arkwright, you'd have met lots like yourself, men and women who are doing things: singing, playing, painting, illustrating, writing. Why, we even had a poet, sir--only he didn't have long hair, so he didn't look the part a bit,” she finished laughingly. “Is long hair--necessary--for poets?” Arkwright's smile was quizzical. “Dear me, no; not now. But it used to be, didn't it? And for painters, too. But now they look just like--folks.” Arkwright laughed. “It isn't possible that you are sighing for the velvet coats and flowing ties of the past, is it, Miss Neilson?” “I'm afraid it is,” dimpled Billy. “I _love_ velvet coats and flowing ties!” “May singers wear them? I shall don them at once, anyhow, at a venture,” declared the man, promptly. Billy smiled and shook her head. “I don't think you will. You all like your horrid fuzzy tweeds and worsteds too well!” “You speak with feeling. One would almost suspect that you already had tried to bring about a reform--and failed. Perhaps Mr. Cyril, now, or Mr. Bertram--” Arkwright stopped with a whimsical smile. Billy flushed a little. As it happened, she had, indeed, had a merry tilt with Bertram on that very subject, and he had laughingly promised that his wedding present to her would be a velvet house coat for himself. It was on the point of Billy's tongue now to say this to Arkwright; but another glance at the provoking smile on his lips drove the words back in angry confusion. For the second time, in the presence of this man, Billy found herself unable to refer to her engagement to Bertram Henshaw--though this time she did not in the least doubt that Arkwright already knew of it. With a little gesture of playful scorn she rose and went to the piano. “Come, let us try some duets,” she suggested. “That's lots nicer than quarrelling over velvet coats; and Aunt Hannah will be down presently to hear us sing.” Before she had ceased speaking, Arkwright was at her side with an exclamation of eager acquiescence. It was after the second duet that Arkwright asked, a little diffidently.