Miss Billie's Decision [56]
not, of course, accept,'' she finished, the bright color flooding her delicate face.
Again Billy raised a protesting hand; but the little woman in the opposite chair hurried on. There was still more, evidently, that she wished to say.
``I hope Mr. Henshaw did not feel too disappointed--about the Lowestoft. We didn't want to let it go if we could help it; and we hope now to keep it.''
``Of course,'' murmured Billy, sympathetically.
``My daughter knew, you see, how much I have always thought of it, and she was determined that I should not give it up. She said I should have that much left, anyway. You see--my daughter is very unreconciled, still, to things as they are; and no wonder, perhaps. They are so different --from what they were!'' Her voice broke a little.
``Of course,'' said Billy again, and this time the words were tinged with impatient indignation. ``If only there were something one could do to help!''
``Thank you, my dear, but there isn't--indeed there isn't,'' rejoined the other, quickly; and Billy, looking into the proudly lifted face, realized suddenly that daughter Alice had perhaps inherited some traits from mother. ``We shall get along very well, I am sure. My daughter has still another pupil. She will be home soon to tell you herself, perhaps.''
Billy rose with a haste so marked it was almost impolite, as she murmured:
``Will she? I'm afraid, though, that I sha'n't see her, after all, for I must go. And may I leave these, please?'' she added, hurriedly unpinning the bunch of white carnations from her coat. ``It seems a pity to let them wilt, when you can put them in water right here.'' Her studiously casual voice gave no hint that those particular pinks had been bought less than half an hour before of a Park Street florist so that Mrs. Greggory _might_ put them in water--right there.
``Oh, oh, how lovely!'' breathed Mrs. Greggory, her face deep in the feathery bed of sweetness. Before she could half say ``Thank you,'' however? she found herself alone.
CHAPTER XIX ALICE GREGGORY
Christmas came and went; and in a flurry of snow and sleet January arrived. The holidays over, matters and things seemed to settle down to the winter routine.
Miss Winthrop had prolonged her visit in Washington until after Christmas, but she had returned to Boston now--and with her she had brought a brand-new idea for her portrait; an idea that caused her to sweep aside with superb disdain all poses and costumes and sketches to date, and announce herself with disarming winsomeness as ``all ready now to really begin!''
Bertram Henshaw was vexed, but helpless. Decidedly he wished to paint Miss Marguerite Winthrop's portrait; but to attempt to paint it when all matters were not to the lady's liking were worse than useless, unless he wished to hang this portrait in the gallery of failures along with Anderson's and Fullam's--and that was not the goal he had set for it. As to the sordid money part of the affair--the great J. G. Winthrop himself had come to the artist, and in one terse sentence had doubled the original price and expressed himself as hopeful that Henshaw would put up with ``the child's notions.'' It was the old financier's next sentence, however, that put the zest of real determination into Bertram, for because of it, the artist saw what this portrait was going to mean to the stern old man, and how dear was the original of it to a heart that was commonly reported ``on the street'' to be made of stone.
Obviously, then, indeed, there was nothing for Bertram Henshaw to do but to begin the new portrait. And he began it--though still, it must be confessed, with inward questionings. Before a week had passed, however, every trace of irritation had fled, and he was once again the absorbed artist who sees the vision of his desire taking palpable shape at the end of his brush.
``It's all right,'' he said to Billy then, one evening. ``I'm glad she changed. It's going to be the best, the very best thing I've ever done--I think! by the sketches.''
``I'm so glad!''
Again Billy raised a protesting hand; but the little woman in the opposite chair hurried on. There was still more, evidently, that she wished to say.
``I hope Mr. Henshaw did not feel too disappointed--about the Lowestoft. We didn't want to let it go if we could help it; and we hope now to keep it.''
``Of course,'' murmured Billy, sympathetically.
``My daughter knew, you see, how much I have always thought of it, and she was determined that I should not give it up. She said I should have that much left, anyway. You see--my daughter is very unreconciled, still, to things as they are; and no wonder, perhaps. They are so different --from what they were!'' Her voice broke a little.
``Of course,'' said Billy again, and this time the words were tinged with impatient indignation. ``If only there were something one could do to help!''
``Thank you, my dear, but there isn't--indeed there isn't,'' rejoined the other, quickly; and Billy, looking into the proudly lifted face, realized suddenly that daughter Alice had perhaps inherited some traits from mother. ``We shall get along very well, I am sure. My daughter has still another pupil. She will be home soon to tell you herself, perhaps.''
Billy rose with a haste so marked it was almost impolite, as she murmured:
``Will she? I'm afraid, though, that I sha'n't see her, after all, for I must go. And may I leave these, please?'' she added, hurriedly unpinning the bunch of white carnations from her coat. ``It seems a pity to let them wilt, when you can put them in water right here.'' Her studiously casual voice gave no hint that those particular pinks had been bought less than half an hour before of a Park Street florist so that Mrs. Greggory _might_ put them in water--right there.
``Oh, oh, how lovely!'' breathed Mrs. Greggory, her face deep in the feathery bed of sweetness. Before she could half say ``Thank you,'' however? she found herself alone.
CHAPTER XIX ALICE GREGGORY
Christmas came and went; and in a flurry of snow and sleet January arrived. The holidays over, matters and things seemed to settle down to the winter routine.
Miss Winthrop had prolonged her visit in Washington until after Christmas, but she had returned to Boston now--and with her she had brought a brand-new idea for her portrait; an idea that caused her to sweep aside with superb disdain all poses and costumes and sketches to date, and announce herself with disarming winsomeness as ``all ready now to really begin!''
Bertram Henshaw was vexed, but helpless. Decidedly he wished to paint Miss Marguerite Winthrop's portrait; but to attempt to paint it when all matters were not to the lady's liking were worse than useless, unless he wished to hang this portrait in the gallery of failures along with Anderson's and Fullam's--and that was not the goal he had set for it. As to the sordid money part of the affair--the great J. G. Winthrop himself had come to the artist, and in one terse sentence had doubled the original price and expressed himself as hopeful that Henshaw would put up with ``the child's notions.'' It was the old financier's next sentence, however, that put the zest of real determination into Bertram, for because of it, the artist saw what this portrait was going to mean to the stern old man, and how dear was the original of it to a heart that was commonly reported ``on the street'' to be made of stone.
Obviously, then, indeed, there was nothing for Bertram Henshaw to do but to begin the new portrait. And he began it--though still, it must be confessed, with inward questionings. Before a week had passed, however, every trace of irritation had fled, and he was once again the absorbed artist who sees the vision of his desire taking palpable shape at the end of his brush.
``It's all right,'' he said to Billy then, one evening. ``I'm glad she changed. It's going to be the best, the very best thing I've ever done--I think! by the sketches.''
``I'm so glad!''