Miss Billie's Decision [31]
here,'' interrupted Billy, with decision.
``Oh, yes, you're here,'' admitted Bertram, aggrievedly, ``and so are dozens of napkins, miles of table-cloths, and yards upon yards of lace and flummydiddles you call `doilies.' They all belong to Marie, and they fill your arms and your thoughts full, until there isn't an inch of room for me. Billy, when is this thing going to end?''
Billy laughed softly. Her eyes danced.
``The twelfth;--that is, there'll be a--pause, then.''
``Well, I'm thankful if--eh?'' broke off the man, with a sudden change of manner. ``What do you mean by `a pause'?''
Billy cast down her eyes demurely.
``Well, of course _this_ ends the twelfth with Marie's wedding; but I've sort of regarded it as an--understudy for one that's coming next October, you see.''
``Billy, you darling!'' breathed a supremely happy voice in a shell-like ear--Billy was not at arm's length now.
Billy smiled, but she drew away with gentle firmness.
``And now I must go back to my sewing,'' she said.
Bertram's arms did not loosen. His eyes had grown mutinous again.
``That is,'' she amended, ``I must be practising my part of--the understudy, you know.''
``You darling!'' breathed Bertram again; this time, however, he let her go.
``But, honestly, is it all necessary?'' he sighed despairingly, as she seated herself and gathered the table-cloth into her lap. ``Do you have to do so much of it all?''
``I do,'' smiled Billy, ``unless you want your brother to run the risk of leading his bride to the altar and finding her robed in a kitchen apron with an egg-beater in her hand for a bouquet.''
Bertram laughed.
``Is it so bad as that?''
``No, of course not--quite. But never have I seen a bride so utterly oblivious to clothes as Marie was till one day in despair I told her that Cyril never could bear a dowdy woman.''
``As if Cyril, in the old days, ever could bear any sort of woman!'' scoffed Bertram, merrily.
``I know; but I didn't mention that part,'' smiled Billy. ``I just singled out the dowdy one.''
``Did it work?''
Billy made a gesture of despair.
``Did it work! It worked too well. Marie gave me one horrified look, then at once and immediately she became possessed with the idea that she _was_ a dowdy woman. And from that day to this she has pursued every lurking wrinkle and every fold awry, until her dressmaker's life isn't worth the living; and I'm beginning to think mine isn't, either, for I have to assure her at least four times every day now that she is _not_ a dowdy woman.''
``You poor dear,'' laughed Bertram. ``No wonder you don't have time to give to me!''
A peculiar expression crossed Billy's face.
``Oh, but I'm not the _only_ one who, at times, is otherwise engaged, sir,'' she reminded him.
``What do you mean?''
``There was yesterday, and last Monday, and last week Wednesday, and--''
``Oh, but you _let_ me off, then,'' argued Bertram, anxiously. ``And you said--''
``That I didn't wish to interfere with your work--which was quite true,'' interrupted Billy in her turn, smoothly. ``By the way,''--Billy was examining her stitches very closely now --``how is Miss Winthrop's portrait coming on?''
``Splendidly!--that is, it _was_, until she began to put off the sittings for her pink teas and folderols. She's going to Washington next week, too, to be gone nearly a fortnight,'' finished Bertram, gloomily.
``Aren't you putting more work than usual into this one--and more sittings?''
``Well, yes,'' laughed Bertram, a little shortly. ``You see, she's changed the pose twice already.''
``Changed it!''
``Yes. Wasn't satisfied. Fancied she wanted it different.''
``But can't you--don't you have something to say about it?''
``Oh, yes, of course; and she claims she'll yield to my judgment, anyhow. But what's the use? She's been a spoiled darling all her life, and in the habit of having her own way about everything. Naturally, under those circumstances, I can't expect to get a satisfactory portrait, if she's out of tune with
``Oh, yes, you're here,'' admitted Bertram, aggrievedly, ``and so are dozens of napkins, miles of table-cloths, and yards upon yards of lace and flummydiddles you call `doilies.' They all belong to Marie, and they fill your arms and your thoughts full, until there isn't an inch of room for me. Billy, when is this thing going to end?''
Billy laughed softly. Her eyes danced.
``The twelfth;--that is, there'll be a--pause, then.''
``Well, I'm thankful if--eh?'' broke off the man, with a sudden change of manner. ``What do you mean by `a pause'?''
Billy cast down her eyes demurely.
``Well, of course _this_ ends the twelfth with Marie's wedding; but I've sort of regarded it as an--understudy for one that's coming next October, you see.''
``Billy, you darling!'' breathed a supremely happy voice in a shell-like ear--Billy was not at arm's length now.
Billy smiled, but she drew away with gentle firmness.
``And now I must go back to my sewing,'' she said.
Bertram's arms did not loosen. His eyes had grown mutinous again.
``That is,'' she amended, ``I must be practising my part of--the understudy, you know.''
``You darling!'' breathed Bertram again; this time, however, he let her go.
``But, honestly, is it all necessary?'' he sighed despairingly, as she seated herself and gathered the table-cloth into her lap. ``Do you have to do so much of it all?''
``I do,'' smiled Billy, ``unless you want your brother to run the risk of leading his bride to the altar and finding her robed in a kitchen apron with an egg-beater in her hand for a bouquet.''
Bertram laughed.
``Is it so bad as that?''
``No, of course not--quite. But never have I seen a bride so utterly oblivious to clothes as Marie was till one day in despair I told her that Cyril never could bear a dowdy woman.''
``As if Cyril, in the old days, ever could bear any sort of woman!'' scoffed Bertram, merrily.
``I know; but I didn't mention that part,'' smiled Billy. ``I just singled out the dowdy one.''
``Did it work?''
Billy made a gesture of despair.
``Did it work! It worked too well. Marie gave me one horrified look, then at once and immediately she became possessed with the idea that she _was_ a dowdy woman. And from that day to this she has pursued every lurking wrinkle and every fold awry, until her dressmaker's life isn't worth the living; and I'm beginning to think mine isn't, either, for I have to assure her at least four times every day now that she is _not_ a dowdy woman.''
``You poor dear,'' laughed Bertram. ``No wonder you don't have time to give to me!''
A peculiar expression crossed Billy's face.
``Oh, but I'm not the _only_ one who, at times, is otherwise engaged, sir,'' she reminded him.
``What do you mean?''
``There was yesterday, and last Monday, and last week Wednesday, and--''
``Oh, but you _let_ me off, then,'' argued Bertram, anxiously. ``And you said--''
``That I didn't wish to interfere with your work--which was quite true,'' interrupted Billy in her turn, smoothly. ``By the way,''--Billy was examining her stitches very closely now --``how is Miss Winthrop's portrait coming on?''
``Splendidly!--that is, it _was_, until she began to put off the sittings for her pink teas and folderols. She's going to Washington next week, too, to be gone nearly a fortnight,'' finished Bertram, gloomily.
``Aren't you putting more work than usual into this one--and more sittings?''
``Well, yes,'' laughed Bertram, a little shortly. ``You see, she's changed the pose twice already.''
``Changed it!''
``Yes. Wasn't satisfied. Fancied she wanted it different.''
``But can't you--don't you have something to say about it?''
``Oh, yes, of course; and she claims she'll yield to my judgment, anyhow. But what's the use? She's been a spoiled darling all her life, and in the habit of having her own way about everything. Naturally, under those circumstances, I can't expect to get a satisfactory portrait, if she's out of tune with