“I should think they might be,” she answered. “Only think how dreadfully upsetting I was in the first place!”
William's beaming face grew a little stern.
“Nobody knew it but Kate—and she didn't know it; she only imagined it,” he said tersely.
Billy shook her head.
“I'm not so sure,” she demurred. “As I look back at it now, I think I can discern a few evidences myself—that I was upsetting. I was a bother to Bertram in his painting, I am sure.”
“You were an inspiration,” corrected Bertram. “Think of the posing you did for me.”
A swift something like a shadow crossed Billy's face; but before her lover could question its meaning, it was gone.
“And I know I was a torment to Cyril.” Billy had turned to the musician now.
“Well, I admit you were a little—upsetting, at times,” retorted that individual, with something of his old imperturbable rudeness.
“Nonsense!” cut in William, sharply. “You were never anything but a comfort in the house, Billy, my dear—and you never will be.”