“Well, of course, any girl—cares something—for the man she loves. Just as if I wouldn't do anything in the world I could for Bertram!”
“Oh, that makes me think; who was that young woman Bertram was talking with last evening—just after he left us, I mean?”
“Miss Winthrop—Miss Marguerite Winthrop. Bertram is—is painting her portrait, you know.”
“Oh, is that the one?” murmured Aunt Hannah. “Hm-m; well, she has a beautiful face.”
“Yes, she has.” Billy spoke very cheerfully. She even hummed a little tune as she carefully selected a needle from the cushion in her basket.
“There's a peculiar something in her face,” mused Aunt Hannah, aloud.
The little tune stopped abruptly, ending in a nervous laugh.
“Dear me! I wonder how it feels to have a peculiar something in your face. Bertram, too, says she has it. He's trying to 'catch it,' he says. I wonder now—if he does catch it, does she lose it?” Flippant as were the words, the voice that uttered them shook a little.
Aunt Hannah smiled indulgently—Aunt Hannah had heard only the flippancy, not the shake.
“I don't know, my dear. You might ask him this afternoon.”