“I beg your pardon, of course,” she said in a voice that was bitterly quiet. “I should not have spoken so. You are very kind, Mr. Henshaw, but I do not think we care to sell the Lowestoft to-day.” Both words and manner were obviously a dismissal; and with a puzzled sigh William Henshaw picked up his hat. His face showed very clearly that he did not know what to do, or what to say; but it showed, too, as clearly, that he longed to do something, or say something. During the brief minute that he hesitated, however, Billy sprang forward. “Mrs. Greggory, please, won't you let _me_ buy the teapot? And then--won't you keep it for me--here? I haven't the hundred dollars with me, but I'll send it right away. You will let me do it, won't you?” It was an impulsive speech, and a foolish one, of course, from the standpoint of sense and logic and reasonableness; but it was one that might be expected, perhaps, from Billy. Mrs. Greggory must have divined, in a way, the spirit that prompted it, for her eyes grew wet, and with a choking “Dear child!” she reached out and caught Billy's hand in both her own--even while she shook her head in denial. Not so her daughter. Alice Greggory flushed scarlet. She drew herself proudly erect. “Thank you,” she said with crisp coldness; “but, distasteful as darns and patches are to us, we prefer them, infinitely, to--charity!” “Oh, but, please, I didn't mean--you didn't understand,” faltered Billy. For answer Alice Greggory walked deliberately to the door and held it open. “Oh, Alice, my dear,” pleaded Mrs. Greggory again, feebly. “Come, Billy! We'll bid you good morning, ladies,” said William Henshaw then, decisively. And Billy, with a little wistful pat on Mrs. Greggory's clasped hands, went. Once down the long four flights of stairs and out on the sidewalk, William Henshaw drew a long breath. “Well, by Jove! Billy, the next time I take you curio hunting, it won't be to this place,” he fumed. “Wasn't it awful!” choked Billy. “Awful! The girl was the most stubborn, unreasonable, vixenish little puss I ever saw. I didn't want her old Lowestoft if she didn't want to sell it! But to practically invite me there, and then treat me like that!” scolded the collector, his face growing red with anger. “Still, I was sorry for the poor little old lady. I wish, somehow, she could have that hundred dollars!” It was the man who said this, not the collector. “So do I,” rejoined Billy, dolefully. “But that girl was so--so queer!” she sighed, with a frown. Billy was puzzled. For the first time, perhaps, in her life, she knew what it was to have her proffered “ice cream” disdainfully refused. CHAPTER XVII. ONLY A LOVE SONG, BUT--