regular—though her mouth and chin are perfect. But her face has so much character, and there's an elusive something about her eyes—Jove! If I can only catch it, it'll be the best thing yet that I've ever done, Billy.”      

       “Will it? I'm so glad—and you'll get it, I know you will,” claimed Billy, clearing her throat a little nervously.     

       “I wish I felt so sure,” sighed Bertram. “But it'll be a great thing if I do get it—J. G. Winthrop's daughter, you know, besides the merit of the likeness itself.”      

       “Yes; yes, indeed!” Billy cleared her throat again. “You've seen her, of course, lately?”      

       “Oh, yes. I was there half the morning discussing the details—sittings and costume, and deciding on the pose.”      

       “Did you find one—to suit?”      

       “Find one!” The artist made a despairing gesture. “I found a dozen that I wanted. The trouble was to tell which I wanted the most.”      

       Billy gave a nervous little laugh.     

       “Isn't that—unusual?” she asked.     

       Bertram lifted his eyebrows with a quizzical smile.     

       “Well, they aren't all Marguerite Winthrops,” he reminded her.     

       “Marguerite!” cried Billy. “Oh, is her name Marguerite? I do think Marguerite is the dearest name!” Billy's eyes and voice were wistful.     

       “I don't—not the dearest. Oh, it's all well enough, of course, but it can't be compared for a moment to—well, say,       'Billy'!”      

       Billy smiled, but she shook her head.     

       “I'm afraid you're not a good judge of names,” she objected.     

       “Yes, I am; though, for that matter, I should love your name, no matter what it was.”      

       “Even if 'twas 'Mary Jane,' eh?” bantered Billy. “Well, you'll have a chance to find out how you like that name pretty quick, sir. We're going to have one here.”      

       “You're going to have a Mary Jane here? Do you mean that Rosa's going away?”     

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