Billy turned with reproachful eyes.
“Oh, how could—you? But then—it was a temptation!” She laughed suddenly. “What sinful joy you must have had watching me hunt for 'Mary Jane.'”
“I didn't,” acknowledged the other, with unexpected candor. “I felt—ashamed. And when I saw you were there alone without Aunt Hannah, I came very near not speaking at all—until I realized that that would be even worse, under the circumstances.”
“Of course it would,” smiled Billy, brightly; “so I don't see but I shall have to forgive you, after all. And here we are at home, Mr. Mary Jane. By the way, what did you say that 'M. J.' did stand for?” she asked, as the car came to a stop.
The man did not seem to hear; at least he did not answer. He was helping his hostess to alight. A moment later a plainly agitated Aunt Hannah—her gray shawl topped with a huge black one—opened the door of the house.
CHAPTER VII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW
At ten minutes before six on the afternoon of Arkwright's arrival, Billy came into the living-room to welcome the three Henshaw brothers, who, as was frequently the case, were dining at Hillside.
Bertram thought Billy had never looked prettier than she did this afternoon with the bronze sheen of her pretty house gown bringing out the bronze lights in her dark eyes and in the soft waves of her beautiful hair. Her countenance, too, carried a peculiar something that the artist's eye was quick to detect, and that the artist's fingers tingled to put on canvas.
“Jove! Billy,” he said low in her ear, as he greeted her, “I wish I had a brush in my hand this minute. I'd have a 'Face of a Girl' that would be worth while!”