But it should all be changed now. She would play, and sing, and go out with him. She would dress up, too. He should see no more wrappers. She would ask about his work, and seem interested. She was interested. She remembered now, that just before he was hurt, he had told her of a new portrait, and of a new “Face of a Girl” that he had planned to do. Lately he had said nothing about these. He had seemed discouraged—and no wonder, with his broken arm! But she would change all that. He should see! And forthwith Billy hurried to her closet to pick out her prettiest house frock.
Long before dinner Billy was ready, waiting in the drawing-room. She had on a pretty little blue silk gown that she knew Bertram liked, and she watched very anxiously for Bertram to come up the steps. She remembered now, with a pang, that he had long since given up his peculiar ring; but she meant to meet him at the door just the same.
Bertram, however, did not come. At a quarter before six he telephoned that he had met some friends, and would dine at the club.
“My, my, how pretty we are!” exclaimed Uncle William, when they went down to dinner together. “New frock?”
“Why, no, Uncle William,” laughed Billy, a little tremulously. “You've seen it dozens of times!”
“Have I?” murmured the man. “I don't seem to remember it. Too bad Bertram isn't here to see you. Somehow, you look unusually pretty to-night.”
And Billy's heart ached anew.
Billy spent the evening practicing—softly, to be sure, so as not to wake Baby—but practicing.
As the days passed Billy discovered that it was much easier to say she would “change things” than it was really to change them. She changed herself, it is true—her clothes, her habits, her words, and her thoughts; but it was more difficult to change Bertram. In the first place, he was there so little. She was dismayed when she saw how very little, indeed, he was at home—and she did not like to ask him outright to stay. That was not in accordance with her plans. Besides, the “Talk to Young Wives” said that indirect influence was much to be preferred, always, to direct persuasion—which last, indeed, usually failed to produce results.
So Billy “dressed up,” and practiced, and talked (of anything but the baby), and even hinted shamelessly once or twice that she would like to go to the theater; but all to little avail. True, Bertram brightened up, for a minute, when he came home and found her in a new or a favorite dress, and he told her how pretty she looked. He appeared to like to have her play to him, too, even declaring once or twice that it was quite like old times, yes, it was. But he never noticed her hints about the theater, and he did not seem to like to talk about his work, even a little bit.