Bertram did not find a pensive Billy awaiting him that evening. He found a bright-eyed, flushed-cheeked Billy, who let herself be kissed—once—but who did not kiss back; a blithe, elusive Billy, who played tripping little melodies, and sang jolly little songs, instead of sitting before the fire and talking; a Billy who at last turned, and asked tranquilly:
“Well, how did the picture go?”
Bertram rose then, crossed the room, and took Billy very gently into his arms.
“Sweetheart, you were a dear this noon to let me off like that,” he began in a voice shaken with emotion. “You don't know, perhaps, exactly what you did. You see, I was nearly wild between wanting to be with you, and wanting to go on with my work. And I was just at that point where one little word from you, one hint that you wanted me to come anyway—and I should have come. But you didn't say it, nor hint it. Like the brave little bit of inspiration that you are, you bade me stay and go on with my work.”
The “inspiration's” head drooped a little lower, but this only brought a wealth of soft bronze hair to just where Bertram could lay his cheek against it—and Bertram promptly took advantage of his opportunity. “And so I stayed, Billy, and I did good work; I know I did good work. Why, Billy,”—Bertram stepped back now, and held Billy by the shoulders at arms' length—“Billy, that's going to be the best work I've ever done. I can see it coming even now, under my fingers.”
Billy lifted her head and looked into her lover's face. His eyes were glowing. His cheeks were flushed. His whole countenance was aflame with the soul of the artist who sees his vision taking shape before him. And Billy, looking at him, felt suddenly—ashamed.
“Oh, Bertram, I'm proud, proud, proud of you!” she breathed. “Come, let's go over to the fire-and talk!”
CHAPTER V. MARIE SPEAKS HER MIND
Billy with John and Peggy met Marie Hawthorn at the station. “Peggy” was short for “Pegasus,” and was what Billy always called her luxurious, seven-seated touring car.