She was always her sweet, loyal, lovable self, eager to hear of his work, earnestly solicitous that it should be a success.

She even--as he sometimes half-irritably remembered--had once told him that she realized he belonged to Art before he did to himself; and when he had indignantly denied this, she had only laughed and thrown a kiss at him, with the remark that he ought to hear his sister Kate's opinion of that matter.
As if he wanted Kate's opinion on that or anything else that concerned him and Billy! Once, torn by jealousy, and exasperated at the frequent interruptions of their quiet hours together, he had complained openly.
"Actually, Billy, it's worse than Marie's wedding," he declared, "_Then_ it was tablecloths and napkins that could be dumped in a chair.

_Now_ it's a girl who wants to rehearse, or a woman that wants a different wig, or a telephone message that the sopranos have quarrelled again.

I loathe that operetta!" Billy laughed, but she frowned, too.
"I know, dear; I don't like that part.

I wish they _would_ let me alone when I'm with you! But as for the operetta, it is really a good thing, dear, and you'll say so when you see it.