Billy sprang from her seat, her eyes eagerly seeking the direction from which had come the voice.
Perhaps--_perhaps_ Bertram wanted her.

Perhaps he was not going to paint any longer that morning, after all.

"Billy!" called the voice again.
"Please, do you mind stopping that playing just for a little while?
I'm a brute, I know, dear, but my brush _will_ try to keep time with that crazy little tune of yours, and you know my hand is none too steady, anyhow, and when it tries to keep up with that jiggety, jig, jig, jiggety, jig, jig--! _Do_ you mind, darling, just--just sewing, or doing something still for a while ?" All the light fled from Billy's face, but her voice, when she spoke, was the quintessence of cheery indifference.
"Why, no, of course not, dear." "Thank you.

I knew you wouldn't," sighed Bertram.

Then the door shut.
For a long minute Billy stood motionless before she glanced at her watch and sped to the telephone.
"Is Miss Greggory there, Rosa ?" she called when the operator's ring was answered.
"Mis' Greggory, the lame one ?" "No; _Miss_ Greggory--Miss Alice." "Oh! Yes'm." "Then won't you ask her to come to the telephone, please." There was a moment's wait, during which Billy's small, well-shod foot beat a nervous tattoo on the floor.
"Oh, is that you, Alice ?" she called then.