“I know better; and I want to see it all so much. We've talked and talked of it; haven't we, Aunt Hannah?—of what we would do when we got to Boston?”
“Yes, my dear; YOU have.”
The girl laughed.
“I accept the amendment,” she retorted with mock submission. “I suppose it is always I who talk.”
“It was—when I painted you,” teased Bertram. “By the way, I'll LET you talk if you'll pose again for me,” he finished eagerly.
Billy uptilted her nose.
“Do you think, sir, you deserve it, after that speech?” she demanded.
“But how about YOUR art—your music?” entreated William. “You have said so little of that in your letters.”
Billy hesitated. For a brief moment she glanced at Cyril. He did not appear to have heard his brother's question. He was talking with Aunt Hannah.
“Oh, I play—some,” murmured the girl, almost evasively. “But tell me of yourself, Uncle William, and of what you are doing.” And William needed no second bidding.