“But, my dear, what can I say, or do, or act?” he asked.
“I don't know, of course,” sighed Billy. “But I know what I'd like to do. I should like to go out and—fight somebody!”
So fierce were words and manner, coupled as they were with a pair of gentle eyes ablaze and two soft little hands doubled into menacing fists, that Bertram laughed.
“What a fiery little champion it is, to be sure,” he said tenderly. “But as if fighting could do any good—in this case!”
Billy's tense muscles relaxed. Her eyes filled with tears.
“No, I don't suppose it would,” she choked, beginning to cry, so that Bertram had to turn comforter.
“Come, come, dear,” he begged; “don't take it so to heart. It's not so bad, after all. I've still my good right hand left, and we'll hope there's something in it yet—that'll be worth while.”
“But this one isn't bad,” stormed Billy. “It's splendid! I'm sure, I think it's a b-beautiful portrait, and I don't see what people mean by talking so about it!”
Bertram shook his head. His eyes grew sombre again.
“Thank you, dear. But I know—and you know, really—that it isn't a splendid portrait. I've done lots better work than that.”