Miss Billie's Decision [23]
tell this man that Bertram Henshaw was engaged to her! He would find it out soon, of course, for himself; and perhaps he, like Hugh Calderwell, would think it was the curve of _her_ cheek, or the tilt of _her_ chin--
Billy lifted her chin very defiantly now as she held out her hand in good-by.
CHAPTER IX
A RUG, A PICTURE, AND A GIRL AFRAID
Thanksgiving came. Once again the Henshaw brothers invited Billy and Aunt Hannah to spend the day with them. This time, however, there was to be an additional guest present in the person of Marie Hawthorn.
And what a day it was, for everything and everybody concerned! First the Strata itself: from Dong Ling's kitchen in the basement to Cyril's domain on the top floor, the house was as spick- and-span as Pete's eager old hands could make it. In the drawing-room and in Bertram's den and studio, great clusters of pink roses perfumed the air, and brightened the sombre richness of the old-time furnishings. Before the open fire in the den a sleek gray cat--adorned with a huge ribbon bow the exact shade of the roses (Bertram had seen to that!)--winked and blinked sleepy yellow eyes. In Bertram's studio the latest ``Face of a Girl'' had made way for a group of canvases and plaques, every one of which showed Billy Neilson in one pose or another. Up-stairs, where William's chaos of treasures filled shelves and cabinets, the place of honor was given to a small black velvet square on which rested a pair of quaint Battersea enamel mirror knobs. In Cyril's rooms--usually so austerely bare--a handsome Oriental rug and several curtain-draped chairs hinted at purchases made at the instigation of a taste other than his own.
When the doorbell rang Pete admitted the ladies with a promptness that was suggestive of surreptitious watching at some window. On Pete's face the dignity of his high office and the delight of the moment were fighting for mastery. The dignity held firmly through Mrs. Stetson's friendly greeting; but it fled in defeat when Billy Neilson stepped over the threshold with a cheery ``Good morning, Pete.''
``Laws! But it's good to be seein' you here again,'' stammered the man,--delight now in sole possession.
``She'll be coming to stay, one of these days, Pete,'' smiled the eldest Henshaw, hurrying forward.
``I wish she had now,'' whispered Bertram, who, in spite of William's quick stride, had reached Billy's side first.
From the stairway came the patter of a man's slippered feet.
``The rug has come, and the curtains, too,'' called a ``householder'' sort of voice that few would have recognized as belonging to Cyril Henshaw. ``You must all come up-stairs and see them after dinner.'' The voice, apparently, spoke to everybody; but the eyes of the owner of the voice plainly saw only the fair-haired young woman who stood a little in the shadow behind Billy, and who was looking about her now as at something a little fearsome, but very dear.
``You know--I've never been--where you live--before,'' explained Marie Hawthorn in a low, vibrant tone, when Cyril bent over her to take the furs from her shoulders.
In Bertram's den a little later, as hosts and guests advanced toward the fire, the sleek gray cat rose, stretched lazily, and turned her head with majestic condescension.
``Well, Spunkie, come here,'' commanded Billy, snapping her fingers at the slow-moving creature on the hearthrug. ``Spunkie, when I am your mistress, you'll have to change either your name or your nature. As if I were going to have such a bunch of independent moderation as you masquerading as an understudy to my frisky little Spunk!''
Everybody laughed. William regarded his namesake with fond eyes as he said:
``Spunkie doesn't seem to be worrying.'' The cat had jumped into Billy's lap with a matter- of-course air that was unmistakable--and to Bertram, adorable. Bertram's eyes, as they rested on Billy, were even fonder than were his brother's.
``I don't think any one is--_worrying_,'' he said with quiet emphasis.
Billy smiled.
``I should think they might
Billy lifted her chin very defiantly now as she held out her hand in good-by.
CHAPTER IX
A RUG, A PICTURE, AND A GIRL AFRAID
Thanksgiving came. Once again the Henshaw brothers invited Billy and Aunt Hannah to spend the day with them. This time, however, there was to be an additional guest present in the person of Marie Hawthorn.
And what a day it was, for everything and everybody concerned! First the Strata itself: from Dong Ling's kitchen in the basement to Cyril's domain on the top floor, the house was as spick- and-span as Pete's eager old hands could make it. In the drawing-room and in Bertram's den and studio, great clusters of pink roses perfumed the air, and brightened the sombre richness of the old-time furnishings. Before the open fire in the den a sleek gray cat--adorned with a huge ribbon bow the exact shade of the roses (Bertram had seen to that!)--winked and blinked sleepy yellow eyes. In Bertram's studio the latest ``Face of a Girl'' had made way for a group of canvases and plaques, every one of which showed Billy Neilson in one pose or another. Up-stairs, where William's chaos of treasures filled shelves and cabinets, the place of honor was given to a small black velvet square on which rested a pair of quaint Battersea enamel mirror knobs. In Cyril's rooms--usually so austerely bare--a handsome Oriental rug and several curtain-draped chairs hinted at purchases made at the instigation of a taste other than his own.
When the doorbell rang Pete admitted the ladies with a promptness that was suggestive of surreptitious watching at some window. On Pete's face the dignity of his high office and the delight of the moment were fighting for mastery. The dignity held firmly through Mrs. Stetson's friendly greeting; but it fled in defeat when Billy Neilson stepped over the threshold with a cheery ``Good morning, Pete.''
``Laws! But it's good to be seein' you here again,'' stammered the man,--delight now in sole possession.
``She'll be coming to stay, one of these days, Pete,'' smiled the eldest Henshaw, hurrying forward.
``I wish she had now,'' whispered Bertram, who, in spite of William's quick stride, had reached Billy's side first.
From the stairway came the patter of a man's slippered feet.
``The rug has come, and the curtains, too,'' called a ``householder'' sort of voice that few would have recognized as belonging to Cyril Henshaw. ``You must all come up-stairs and see them after dinner.'' The voice, apparently, spoke to everybody; but the eyes of the owner of the voice plainly saw only the fair-haired young woman who stood a little in the shadow behind Billy, and who was looking about her now as at something a little fearsome, but very dear.
``You know--I've never been--where you live--before,'' explained Marie Hawthorn in a low, vibrant tone, when Cyril bent over her to take the furs from her shoulders.
In Bertram's den a little later, as hosts and guests advanced toward the fire, the sleek gray cat rose, stretched lazily, and turned her head with majestic condescension.
``Well, Spunkie, come here,'' commanded Billy, snapping her fingers at the slow-moving creature on the hearthrug. ``Spunkie, when I am your mistress, you'll have to change either your name or your nature. As if I were going to have such a bunch of independent moderation as you masquerading as an understudy to my frisky little Spunk!''
Everybody laughed. William regarded his namesake with fond eyes as he said:
``Spunkie doesn't seem to be worrying.'' The cat had jumped into Billy's lap with a matter- of-course air that was unmistakable--and to Bertram, adorable. Bertram's eyes, as they rested on Billy, were even fonder than were his brother's.
``I don't think any one is--_worrying_,'' he said with quiet emphasis.
Billy smiled.
``I should think they might