"I do," smiled Billy, "unless you want your brother to run the risk of leading his bride to the altar and finding her robed in a kitchen ap.r.o.n with an egg-beater in her hand for a bouquet."

Bertram laughed.

"Is it so bad as that?"

"No, of course not--quite. But never have I seen a bride so utterly oblivious to clothes as Marie was till one day in despair I told her that Cyril never could bear a dowdy woman."

"As if Cyril, in the old days, ever could bear any sort of woman!"

scoffed Bertram, merrily.

"I know; but I didn't mention that part," smiled Billy. "I just singled out the dowdy one."

"Did it work?"

Billy made a gesture of despair.

"Did it work! It worked too well. Marie gave me one horrified look, then at once and immediately she became possessed with the idea that she _was_ a dowdy woman. And from that day to this she has pursued every lurking wrinkle and every fold awry, until her dressmaker's life isn't worth the living; and I'm beginning to think mine isn't, either, for I have to a.s.sure her at least four times every day now that she is _not_ a dowdy woman."

"You poor dear," laughed Bertram. "No wonder you don't have time to give to me!"

A peculiar expression crossed Billy's face.

"Oh, but I'm not the _only_ one who, at times, is otherwise engaged, sir," she reminded him.

"What do you mean?"

"There was yesterday, and last Monday, and last week Wednesday, and--"

"Oh, but you _let_ me off, then," argued Bertram, anxiously. "And you said--"

"That I didn't wish to interfere with your work--which was quite true,"

interrupted Billy in her turn, smoothly. "By the way,"--Billy was examining her st.i.tches very closely now--"how is Miss Winthrop's portrait coming on?"

"Splendidly!--that is, it _was_, until she began to put off the sittings for her pink teas and folderols. She's going to Washington next week, too, to be gone nearly a fortnight," finished Bertram, gloomily.

"Aren't you putting more work than usual into this one--and more sittings?"

"Well, yes," laughed Bertram, a little shortly. "You see, she's changed the pose twice already."

"Changed it!"

"Yes. Wasn't satisfied. Fancied she wanted it different."

"But can't you--don't you have something to say about it?"

"Oh, yes, of course; and she claims she'll yield to my judgment, anyhow.

But what's the use? She's been a spoiled darling all her life, and in the habit of having her own way about everything. Naturally, under those circ.u.mstances, I can't expect to get a satisfactory portrait, if she's out of tune with the pose. Besides, I will own, so far her suggestions have made for improvement--probably because she's been happy in making them, so her expression has been good."

Billy wet her lips.

"I saw her the other night," she said lightly. (If the lightness was a little artificial Bertram did not seem to notice it.) "She is certainly--very beautiful."

"Yes." Bertram got to his feet and began to walk up and down the little room. His eyes were alight. On his face the "painting look" was king.

"It's going to mean a lot to me--this picture, Billy. In the first place I'm just at the point in my career where a big success would mean a lot--and where a big failure would mean more. And this portrait is bound to be one or the other from the very nature of the thing."

"I-is it?" Billy's voice was a little faint.

"Yes. First, because of who the sitter is, and secondly because of what she is. She is, of course, the most famous subject I've had, and half the artistic world knows by this time that Marguerite Winthrop is being done by Henshaw. You can see what it'll be--if I fail."

"But you won't fail, Bertram!"

The artist lifted his chin and threw back his shoulders.

"No, of course not; but--" He hesitated, frowned, and dropped himself into a chair. His eyes studied the fire moodily. "You see," he resumed, after a moment, "there's a peculiar, elusive something about her expression--" (Billy stirred restlessly and gave her thread so savage a jerk that it broke)"--a something that isn't easily caught by the brush.

Anderson and Fullam--big fellows, both of them--didn't catch it. At least, I've understood that neither her family nor her friends are satisfied with _their_ portraits. And to succeed where Anderson and Fullam failed--Jove! Billy, a chance like that doesn't come to a fellow twice in a lifetime!" Bertram was out of his chair, again, tramping up and down the little room.

Billy tossed her work aside and sprang to her feet. Her eyes, too, were alight, now.

"But you aren't going to fail, dear," she cried, holding out both her hands. "You're going to succeed!"

Bertram caught the hands and kissed first one then the other of their soft little palms.

"Of course I am," he agreed pa.s.sionately, leading her to the sofa, and seating himself at her side.

"Yes, but you must really _feel_ it," she urged; "feel the '_sure_' in yourself. You have to!--to doing things. That's what I told Mary Jane yesterday, when he was running on about what _he_ wanted to do--in his singing, you know."

Bertram stiffened a little. A quick frown came to his face.

"Mary Jane, indeed! Of all the absurd names to give a full-grown, six-foot man! Billy, do, for pity's sake, call him by his name--if he's got one."

Billy broke into a rippling laugh.

"I wish I could, dear," she sighed ingenuously.

"Honestly, it bothers me because I _can't_ think of him as anything but 'Mary Jane.' It seems so silly!"

"It certainly does--when one remembers his beard."

"Oh, he's shaved that off now. He looks rather better, too."

Bertram turned a little sharply.

"Do you see the fellow--often?"

Billy laughed merrily.

"No. He's about as disgruntled as you are over the way the wedding monopolizes everything. He's been up once or twice to see Aunt Hannah and to get acquainted, as he expresses it, and once he brought up some music and we sang; but he declares the wedding hasn't given him half a show."