So heartbroken was she--and so fearful was she that he should suspect this--that her note, when completed, was a cold little thing of few words, which carried no hint that its very coldness was but the heart-break in the disguise of pride.
This was like Billy in all ways.

Billy, had she lived in the days of the Christian martyrs, would have been the first to walk with head erect into the Arena of Sacrifice.

The arena now was just everyday living, the lions were her own devouring misery, and the cause was Bertram's best good.
From Bertram's own self she had it now--that she had been the cause of his being troubled; so she could doubt no longer.

The only part that was uncertain was the reason why he had been troubled.

Whether his bond to her had become irksome because of his love for another, or because of his love for no girl--except to paint, Billy did not know.