Again Billy laughed—laughed until she saw the pained anger leap to the gray eyes before her; then she became grave at once.
“Bertram, forgive me. I didn't think you could—you can't be—serious!”
“But I am.”
Billy shook her head.
“But you don't love me—not ME, Bertram. It's only the turn of my head or—or the tilt of my chin that you love—to paint,” she protested, unconsciously echoing the words Calderwell had said to her weeks before. “I'm only another 'Face of a Girl.'”
“You're the only 'Face of a girl' to me now, Billy,” declared the man, with disarming tenderness.
“No, no, not that,” demurred Billy, in distress. “You don't mean it. You only think you do. It couldn't be that. It can't be!”
“But it is, dear. I think I have loved you ever since that night long ago when I saw your dear, startled face appealing to me from beyond Seaver's hateful smile. And, Billy, I never went once with Seaver again—anywhere. Did you know that?”
“No; but—I'm glad—so glad!”
“And I'm glad, too. So you see, I must have loved you then, though unconsciously, perhaps; and I love you now.”