am."

"But it couldn't," smiled Billy. "It wasn't William--that I loved."

"But _Bertram!_--it's so absurd."

"Absurd!" The smile was gone now.

"Yes. Forgive me, Billy, but I was about as much surprised to hear of
Bertram's engagement as I was of Cyril's."

Billy grew a little white.

"But Bertram was never an avowed--woman-hater, like Cyril, was he?"

"'Woman-hater'--dear me, no! He was a woman-lover, always. As if his
eternal 'Face of a Girl' didn't prove that! Bertram has always loved
women--to paint. But as for his ever taking them seriously--why, Billy,
what's the matter?"

Billy had risen suddenly.

"If you'll excuse me, please, just a few minutes," Billy said very
quietly. "I want to speak to Rosa in the kitchen. I'll be back--soon."

In the kitchen Billy spoke to Rosa--she wondered afterwards what she
said. Certainly she did not stay in the kitchen long enough to say much.
In her own room a minute later, with the door fast closed, she took
from her table the photograph of Bertram and held it in her two hands,
talking to it softly, but a little wildly.

"I didn't listen! I didn't stay! Do you hear? I came to you. She
shall not say anything that will make trouble between you and me. I've
suffered enough through her already! And she doesn't _know_--she didn't
know before, and she doesn't now. She's only imagining. I will not
not--_not_ believe that you love me--just to paint. No matter what they
say--all of them! I _will not!_"

Billy put the photograph back on the table then, and went down-stairs to
her guest. She smiled brightly, though her face was a little pale.

"I wondered if perhaps you wouldn't like some music," she said
pleasantly, going straight to the piano.

"Indeed I would!" agreed Mrs. Hartwell.

Billy sat down then and played--played as Mrs. Hartwell had never heard
her play before.

"Why, Billy, you amaze me," she cried, when the pianist stopped and
whirled about. "I had no idea you could play like that!"

Billy smiled enigmatically. Billy was thinking that Mrs. Hartwell would,
indeed, have been surprised if she had known that in that playing
were herself, the ride home, the luncheon, Bertram, and the girl--whom
Bertram _did not love only to paint!_

CHAPTER XIII. CYRIL AND A WEDDING

The twelfth was a beautiful day. Clear, frosty air set the blood to
tingling and the eyes to sparkling, even if it were not your wedding
day; while if it were--

It _was_ Marie Hawtho