Then I'll be there at half-past three," nodded Miss Winthrop, with a smile, as she turned to give place to an admiring group, who were waiting to pay their respects to the artist and his wife.
There was, after all, that evening, one fly in Billy's ointment.
It fluttered in at the behest of an old acquaintance--one of the "advice women," as Billy termed some of her too interested friends.
"Well, they're lovely, perfectly lovely, of course, Mrs.Henshaw," said this lady, coming up to say good-night.

"But, all the same, I'm glad my husband is just a plain lawyer.

Look out, my dear, that while Mr.Henshaw is stealing all those pretty faces for his canvases--just look out that the fair ladies don't turn around and steal his heart before you know it.

Dear me, but you must be so proud of him!" "I am," smiled Billy, serenely; and only the jagged split that rent the glove on her hand, at that moment, told of the fierce anger behind that smile.
"As if I couldn't trust Bertram!" raged Billy passionately to herself, stealing a surreptitious glance at her ruined glove.

"And as if there weren't ever any perfectly happy marriages--even if you don't ever hear of them, or read of them!" Bertram was not home to luncheon on the day following the opening night of the Bohemian Ten Club.