She would not threaten scenes, nor peer into recesses.

Whatever happened, she would not let Bertram begin to chafe against those bonds! Having arrived at this heroic and (to her) eminently satisfactory state of mind, Billy turned from the window and fell to work on a piece of manuscript music.
"'Brush up against other interests,'" she admonished herself sternly, as she reached for her pen.
Theoretically it was beautiful; but practically-- Billy began at once to be that oak.

Not an hour after she had first seen the fateful notice of "When the Honeymoon Wanes," Bertram's ring sounded at the door down-stairs.
Bertram always let himself in with his latchkey; but, from the first of Billy's being there, he had given a peculiar ring at the bell which would bring his wife flying to welcome him if she were anywhere in the house.

To-day, when the bell sounded, Billy sprang as usual to her feet, with a joyous "There's Bertram!" But the next moment she fell back.
"Tut, tut, Billy Neilson Henshaw! Learn to cultivate a comfortable indifference to your husband's comings and goings," she whispered fiercely.

Then she sat down and fell to work again.
A moment later she heard her husband's voice talking to some one--Pete, she surmised.