“Billy, you haven't played to me or sung to me since I could remember,” he complained. “I want some music.”
Billy gave a merry laugh and wriggled her fingers experimentally.
“Mercy, Bertram! I don't believe I could play a note. You know I'm all out of practice.”
“But why don't you practice?”
“Why, Bertram, I can't. In the first place I don't seem to have any time except when Baby's asleep; and I can't play then-I'd wake him up.”
Bertram sighed irritably, rose to his feet, and began to walk up and down the room. He came to a pause at last, his eyes bent a trifle disapprovingly on his wife.
“Billy, dear, don't you wear anything but those wrapper things nowadays?” he asked plaintively.
Again Billy laughed. But this time a troubled frown followed the laugh.
“I know, Bertram, I suppose they do look dowdy, sometimes,” she confessed; “but, you see, I hate to wear a really good dress—Baby rumples them up so; and I'm usually in a hurry to get to him mornings, and these are so easy to slip into, and so much more comfortable for me to handle him in!”
“Yes, of course, of course; I see,” mumbled Bertram, listlessly taking up his walk again.