“They can't help liking it,” he retorted, with the prompt certainty of an adoring lover.     

       Billy shook her head. Her eyes had gone back to the fire.     

       “Oh, yes, they can. I can hear them. 'What, she—Bertram Henshaw's wife?—a frivolous, inconsequential “Billy” like that?'       Bertram!”—Billy turned fiercely despairing eyes on her lover—“Bertram, sometimes I wish my name were 'Clarissa Cordelia,' or 'Arabella Maud,' or       'Hannah Jane'—anything that's feminine and proper!”      

       Bertram's ringing laugh brought a faint smile to Billy's lips. But the words that followed the laugh, and the caressing touch of the man's hands sent a flood of shy color to her face.     

       “'Hannah Jane,' indeed! As if I'd exchange my Billy for her or any Clarissa or Arabella that ever grew! I adore Billy—flame, nature, and—”      

       “And naughtiness?” put in Billy herself.     

       “Yes—if there be any,” laughed Bertram, fondly. “But, see,” he added, taking a tiny box from his pocket, “see what I've brought for this       same Billy to wear. She'd have had it long ago if she hadn't insisted on waiting for this announcement business.”      

       “Oh, Bertram, what a beauty!” dimpled Billy, as the flawless diamond in Bertram's fingers caught the light and sent it back in a flash of flame and crimson.     

       “Now you are mine—really mine, sweetheart!” The man's voice and hand shook as he slipped the ring on Billy's outstretched finger.     

       Billy caught her breath with almost a sob.     

       “And I'm so glad to be—yours, dear,” she murmured brokenly. “And—and I'll make you proud that I am yours, even if I am just 'Billy,'” she choked. “Oh, I know I'll write such beautiful, beautiful songs now.”      

       The man drew her into a close embrace.     

       “As if I cared for that,” he scoffed lovingly.     

       Billy looked up in quick horror.     

       “Why, Bertram, you don't mean you don't—care?”      

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