Bertram Henshaw was vexed, but helpless. Decidedly he wished to paint Miss Marguerite Winthrop's portrait; but to attempt to paint it when all matters were not to the lady's liking were worse than useless, unless he wished to hang this portrait in the gallery of failures along with Anderson's and Fullam's--and that was not the goal he had set for it. As to the sordid money part of the affair--the great J. G. Winthrop himself had come to the artist, and in one terse sentence had doubled the original price and expressed himself as hopeful that Henshaw would put up with “the child's notions.” It was the old financier's next sentence, however, that put the zest of real determination into Bertram, for because of it, the artist saw what this portrait was going to mean to the stern old man, and how dear was the original of it to a heart that was commonly reported “on the street” to be made of stone. Obviously, then, indeed, there was nothing for Bertram Henshaw to do but to begin the new portrait. And he began it--though still, it must be confessed, with inward questionings. Before a week had passed, however, every trace of irritation had fled, and he was once again the absorbed artist who sees the vision of his desire taking palpable shape at the end of his brush. “It's all right,” he said to Billy then, one evening. “I'm glad she changed. It's going to be the best, the very best thing I've ever done--I think! by the sketches.” “I'm so glad!” exclaimed Billy. “I'm so glad!” The repetition was so vehement that it sounded almost as if she were trying to convince herself as well as Bertram of something that was not true. But it was true--Billy told herself very indignantly that it was; indeed it was! Yet the very fact that she had to tell herself this, caused her to know how perilously near she was to being actually jealous of that portrait of Marguerite Winthrop. And it shamed her. Very sternly these days Billy reminded herself of what Kate had said about Bertram's belonging first to his Art. She thought with mortification, too, that it _did_ look as if she were not the proper wife for an artist if she were going to feel like this--always. Very resolutely, then, Billy turned to her music. This was all the more easily done, for, not only did she have her usual concerts and the opera to enjoy, but she had become interested in an operetta her club was about to give; also she had taken up the new song again. Christmas being over, Mr. Arkwright had been to the house several times. He had changed some of the words and she had improved the melody. The work on the accompaniment was progressing finely now, and Billy was so glad!--when she was absorbed in her music she forgot sometimes that she was ever so unfit an artist's sweetheart as to be--jealous of a portrait.