"I am." Arkwright paused, then went on almost defiantly. "You see, Calderwell was telling me only last September how very unmarriageable all the Henshaw brothers were. So I am surprised--naturally," finished Arkwright, as he rose to take his leave.

A swift crimson stained Billy's face.

"But surely you must know that--that--"

"That he has a right to change his mind, of course," supplemented Arkwright smilingly, coming to her rescue in the evident confusion that would not let her finish her sentence. "But Calderwell made it so emphatic, you see, about all the brothers. He said that William had lost his heart long ago; that Cyril hadn't any to lose; and that Bertram--"

"But, Mr. Arkwright, Bertram is--is--" Billy had moistened her lips, and plunged hurriedly in to prevent Arkwright's next words. But again was she unable to finish her sentence, and again was she forced to listen to a very different completion from the smiling lips of the man at her side.

"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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 cl.u.s.ters 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 k.n.o.bs. 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 surrept.i.tious 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.

"I wish she had now," whispered Bertram, who, in spite of William's quick stride, had reached Billy's side first.

From the stairway came the patter of a man's slippered feet.

"The rug has come, and the curtains, too," called a "householder" sort of voice that few would have recognized as belonging to Cyril Henshaw.

"You must all come up-stairs and see them after dinner." The voice, apparently, spoke to everybody; but the eyes of the owner of the voice plainly saw only the fair-haired young woman who stood a little in the shadow behind Billy, and who was looking about her now as at something a little fearsome, but very dear.

"You know--I've never been--where you live--before," explained Marie Hawthorn in a low, vibrant tone, when Cyril bent over her to take the furs from her shoulders.

In Bertram's den a little later, as hosts and guests advanced toward the fire, the sleek gray cat rose, stretched lazily, and turned her head with majestic condescension.

"Well, s.p.u.n.kie, come here," commanded Billy, snapping her fingers at the slow-moving creature on the hearthrug. "s.p.u.n.kie, when I am your mistress, you'll have to change either your name or your nature. As if I were going to have such a bunch of independent moderation as you masquerading as an understudy to my frisky little s.p.u.n.k!"

Everybody laughed. William regarded his namesake with fond eyes as he said:

"s.p.u.n.kie doesn't seem to be worrying." The cat had jumped into Billy's lap with a matter-of-course air that was unmistakable--and to Bertram, adorable. Bertram's eyes, as they rested on Billy, were even fonder than were his brother's.

"I don't think any one is--_worrying_," he said with quiet emphasis.

Billy smiled.

"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.

"n.o.body 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."

"Thank you," murmured Billy, demurely. "I'll remember that--when Pete and I disagree about the table decorations, and Dong Ling doesn't like the way I want my soup seasoned."

An anxious frown showed on Bertram's face.

"Billy," he said in a low voice, as the others laughed at her sally, "you needn't have Pete nor Dong Ling here if you don't want them."

"Don't want them!" echoed Billy, indignantly. "Of course I want them!"

"But--Pete _is_ old, and--"

"Yes; and where's he grown old? For whom has he worked the last fifty years, while he's been growing old? I wonder if you think I'd let Pete leave this house as long as he _wants_ to stay! As for Dong Ling--"

A sudden movement of Bertram's hand arrested her words. She looked up to find Pete in the doorway.

"Dinner is served, sir," announced the old butler, his eyes on his master's face.

William rose with alacrity, and gave his arm to Aunt Hannah.

"Well, I'm sure we're ready for dinner," he declared.

It was a good dinner, and it was well served. It could scarcely have been otherwise with Dong Ling in the kitchen and Pete in the dining-room doing their utmost to please. But even had the turkey been tough instead of tender, and even had the pies been filled with sawdust instead of with delicious mincemeat, it is doubtful if four at the table would have known the difference: Cyril and Marie at one end were discussing where to put their new sideboard in their dining-room, and Bertram and Billy at the other were talking of the next Thanksgiving, when, according to Bertram, the Strata would have the "dearest little mistress that ever was born." As if, under these circ.u.mstances, the tenderness of the turkey or the toothsomeness of the mince pie mattered! To Aunt Hannah and William, in the centre of the table, however, it did matter; so it was well, of course, that the dinner was a good one.

"And now," said Cyril, when dinner was over, "suppose you come up and see the rug."

In compliance with this suggestion, the six trailed up the long flights of stairs then, Billy carrying an extra shawl for Aunt Hannah--Cyril's rooms were always cool.