“Sh-h, Billy! Some one will hear you,” protested Bertram, tragically; but, in spite of his horrified voice, he did not look displeased.
For the first time Billy met Marguerite Winthrop that evening. At the outset there was just a bit of shyness and constraint in the young wife's manner. Billy could not forget her old insane jealousy of this beautiful girl with the envied name of Marguerite. But it was for only a moment, and soon she was her natural, charming self.
Miss Winthrop was fascinated, and she made no pretense of hiding it. She even turned to Bertram at last, and cried:
“Surely, now, Mr. Henshaw, you need never go far for a model! Why don't you paint your wife?”
Billy colored. Bertram smiled.
“I have,” he said. “I have painted her many times. In fact, I have painted her so often that she once declared it was only the tilt of her chin and the turn of her head that I loved—to paint,” he said merrily, enjoying Billy's pretty confusion, and not realizing that his words really distressed her. “I have a whole studio full of 'Billys' at home.”
“Oh, have you, really?” questioned Miss Winthrop, eagerly. “Then mayn't I see them? Mayn't I, please, Mrs. Henshaw? I'd so love to!”
“Why, of course you may,” murmured both the artist and his wife.
“Thank you. Then I'm coming right away. May I? I'm going to Washington next week, you see. Will you let me come to-morrow at—at half-past three, then? Will it be quite convenient for you, Mrs. Henshaw?”
“Quite convenient. I shall be glad to see you,” smiled Billy. And Bertram echoed his wife's cordial permission.