For a short half-minute Billy looked at her husband without speaking. Then, a little queerly, she laughed.
“Oh, no, nothing at all in particular,” she retorted airily. The next moment, with one of her unexpected changes of manner, she darted across the room, picked up a palette, and a handful of brushes from the long box near it. Advancing toward her husband she held them out dramatically. “And now paint, my lord, paint!” she commanded him, with stern insistence, as she thrust them into his hands.
Bertram laughed shamefacedly.
“Oh, I say, Billy,” he began; but Billy had gone.
Out in the hall Billy was speeding up-stairs, talking fiercely to herself.
“We'll, Billy Neilson Henshaw, it's come! Now behave yourself. That was the painting look! You know what that means. Remember, he belongs to his Art before he does to you. Kate and everybody says so. And you—you expected him to tend to you and your silly little songs. Do you want to ruin his career? As if now he could spend all his time and give all his thoughts to you! But I—I just hate that Art!”
“What did you say, Billy?” asked William, in mild surprise, coming around the turn of the balustrade in the hall above. “Were you speaking to me, my dear?”
Billy looked up. Her face cleared suddenly, and she laughed—though a little ruefully.
“No, Uncle William, I wasn't talking to you,” she sighed. “I was just—just administering first aid to the injured,” she finished, as she whisked into her own room.
“Well, well, bless the child! What can she mean by that?” puzzled Uncle William, turning to go down the stairway.