He laughed lightly, and took the dismayed little face between his two hands.     

       “Care, darling? of course I care! You know how I love your music. I care about everything that concerns you. I meant that I'm proud of you now—just you. I love you, you know.”      

       There was a moment's pause. Billy's eyes, as they looked at him, carried a curious intentness in their dark depths.     

       “You mean, you like—the turn of my head and the tilt of my chin?”        she asked a little breathlessly.     

       “I adore them!” came the prompt answer.     

       To Bertram's utter amazement, Billy drew back with a sharp cry.     

       “No, no—not that!”      

       “Why, Billy!”      

       Billy laughed unexpectedly; then she sighed.     

       “Oh, it's all right, of course,” she assured him hastily. “It's only—”        Billy stopped and blushed. Billy was thinking of what Hugh Calderwell had once said to her: that Bertram Henshaw would never love any girl seriously; that it would always be the turn of her head or the tilt of her chin that he loved—to paint.     

       “Well; only what?” demanded Bertram.     

       Billy blushed the more deeply, but she gave a light laugh.     

       “Nothing, only something Hugh Calderwell said to me once. You see,       Bertram, I don't think Hugh ever thought you would—marry.”      

       “Oh, didn't he?” bridled Bertram. “Well, that only goes to show how much he knows about it. Er—did you announce it—to him?” Bertram's voice was almost savage now.     

       Billy smiled.     

       “No; but I did to his sister, and she'll tell him. Oh, Bertram, such a time as I had over those notes,” went on Billy, with a chuckle. Her eyes were dancing, and she was seeming more like her usual self, Bertram thought. “You see there were such a lot of 

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