“Is an artist, of course,” said Arkwright. “That's what Calderwell declared—that it would always be the tilt of a chin or the curve of a cheek that the artist loved—to paint.”
Billy drew back suddenly. Her face paled. As if now she could tell this man that Bertram Henshaw was engaged to her! He would find it out soon, of course, for himself; and perhaps he, like Hugh Calderwell, would think it was the curve of her cheek, or the tilt of her chin—
Billy lifted her chin very defiantly now as she held out her hand in good-by.
CHAPTER IX. A RUG, A PICTURE, AND A GIRL AFRAID
Thanksgiving came. Once again the Henshaw brothers invited Billy and Aunt Hannah to spend the day with them. This time, however, there was to be an additional guest present in the person of Marie Hawthorn.
And what a day it was, for everything and everybody concerned! First the Strata itself: from Dong Ling's kitchen in the basement to Cyril's domain on the top floor, the house was as spick-and-span as Pete's eager old hands could make it. In the drawing-room and in Bertram's den and studio, great clusters of pink roses perfumed the air, and brightened the sombre richness of the old-time furnishings. Before the open fire in the den a sleek gray cat—adorned with a huge ribbon bow the exact shade of the roses (Bertram had seen to that!)—winked and blinked sleepy yellow eyes. In Bertram's studio the latest “Face of a Girl” had made way for a group of canvases and plaques, every one of which showed Billy Neilson in one pose or another. Up-stairs, where William's chaos of treasures filled shelves and cabinets, the place of honor was given to a small black velvet square on which rested a pair of quaint Battersea enamel mirror knobs. In Cyril's rooms—usually so austerely bare—a handsome Oriental rug and several curtain-draped chairs hinted at purchases made at the instigation of a taste other than his own.
When the doorbell rang Pete admitted the ladies with a promptness that was suggestive of surreptitious watching at some window. On Pete's face the dignity of his high office and the delight of the moment were fighting for mastery. The dignity held firmly through Mrs. Stetson's friendly greeting; but it fled in defeat when Billy Neilson stepped over the threshold with a cheery “Good morning, Pete.”
“Laws! But it's good to be seein' you here again,” stammered the man,—delight now in sole possession.
“She'll be coming to stay, one of these days, Pete,” smiled the eldest Henshaw, hurrying forward.