Billy put the photograph back on the table then, and went down-stairs to her guest. She smiled brightly, though her face was a little pale.
“I wondered if perhaps you wouldn't like some music,” she said pleasantly, going straight to the piano.
“Indeed I would!” agreed Mrs. Hartwell.
Billy sat down then and played—played as Mrs. Hartwell had never heard her play before.
“Why, Billy, you amaze me,” she cried, when the pianist stopped and whirled about. “I had no idea you could play like that!”
Billy smiled enigmatically. Billy was thinking that Mrs. Hartwell would, indeed, have been surprised if she had known that in that playing were herself, the ride home, the luncheon, Bertram, and the girl—whom Bertram did not love only to paint!
CHAPTER XIII. CYRIL AND A WEDDING
The twelfth was a beautiful day. Clear, frosty air set the blood to tingling and the eyes to sparkling, even if it were not your wedding day; while if it were—
It was Marie Hawthorn's wedding day, and certainly her eyes sparkled and her blood tingled as she threw open the window of her room and breathed long and deep of the fresh morning air before going down to breakfast.