“Yes. Well, never mind what Kate said,” interrupted the man, savagely.
Billy laughed, and gave his ear a playful tweak.
“All right; but I'm not going to do it, you know—spoil your career, sir. You just wait,” she continued dramatically. “The minute your arm gets so you can paint, I myself shall conduct you to your studio, thrust the brushes into your hand, fill your palette with all the colors of the rainbow, and order you to paint, my lord, paint! But—until then I'm going to have you all I like,” she finished, with a complete change of manner, nestling into the ready curve of his good left arm.
“You witch!” laughed the man, fondly. “Why, Billy, you couldn't hinder me. You'll be my inspiration, dear, instead of slaying it. You'll see. This time Marguerite Winthrop's portrait is going to be a success.”
Billy turned quickly.
“Then you are—that is, you haven't—I mean, you're going to—paint it?”
“I just am,” avowed the artist. “And this time it'll be a success, too, with you to help.”
Billy drew in her breath tremulously.
“I didn't know but you'd already started it,” she faltered.
He shook his head.