Miss Billie's Decision [8]
know I'll write such beautiful, beautiful songs now.''
The man drew her into a close embrace.
``As if I cared for that,'' he scoffed lovingly.
Billy looked up in quick horror.
``Why, Bertram, you don't mean you don't --care?''
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 things I wanted to say, about what a dear you were, and how much I--I liked you, and that you had such lovely eyes, and a nose--''
``Billy!'' This time it was Bertram who was sitting erect in pale horror.
Billy threw him a roguish glance.
``Goosey! You are as bad as Aunt Hannah! I said that was what I _wanted_ to say. What I really said was--quite another matter,'' she finished with a saucy uptilting of her chin.
Bertram relaxed with a laugh.
``You witch!'' His admiring eyes still lingered on her face. ``Billy, I'm going to paint you sometime in just that pose. You're adorable!''
``Pooh! Just another face of a girl,'' teased the adorable one.
Bertram gave a sudden exclamation.
``There! And I haven't told you, yet. Guess what my next commission is.''
``To paint a portrait?''
``Yes.''
``Can't. Who is it?''
``J. G. Winthrop's daughter.''
``Not _the_ J. G. Winthrop?''
``The same.''
``Oh, Bertram, how splendid!''
``Isn't it? And then the girl herself! Have you seen her? But you haven't, I know, unless you met her abroad. She hasn't been in Boston for years until now.''
``No, I haven't seen her. Is she so _very_ beautiful?'' Billy spoke a little soberly.
``Yes--and no.'' The artist lifted his head alertly. What Billy called his ``painting look'' came to his face. ``It isn't that her features are so 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
The man drew her into a close embrace.
``As if I cared for that,'' he scoffed lovingly.
Billy looked up in quick horror.
``Why, Bertram, you don't mean you don't --care?''
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 things I wanted to say, about what a dear you were, and how much I--I liked you, and that you had such lovely eyes, and a nose--''
``Billy!'' This time it was Bertram who was sitting erect in pale horror.
Billy threw him a roguish glance.
``Goosey! You are as bad as Aunt Hannah! I said that was what I _wanted_ to say. What I really said was--quite another matter,'' she finished with a saucy uptilting of her chin.
Bertram relaxed with a laugh.
``You witch!'' His admiring eyes still lingered on her face. ``Billy, I'm going to paint you sometime in just that pose. You're adorable!''
``Pooh! Just another face of a girl,'' teased the adorable one.
Bertram gave a sudden exclamation.
``There! And I haven't told you, yet. Guess what my next commission is.''
``To paint a portrait?''
``Yes.''
``Can't. Who is it?''
``J. G. Winthrop's daughter.''
``Not _the_ J. G. Winthrop?''
``The same.''
``Oh, Bertram, how splendid!''
``Isn't it? And then the girl herself! Have you seen her? But you haven't, I know, unless you met her abroad. She hasn't been in Boston for years until now.''
``No, I haven't seen her. Is she so _very_ beautiful?'' Billy spoke a little soberly.
``Yes--and no.'' The artist lifted his head alertly. What Billy called his ``painting look'' came to his face. ``It isn't that her features are so 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