A puzzled frown showed below the fantastic bandage about his head.

"'As soon as,'" he quoted then scornfully.

"Were you ever by any possible chance thinking I _didn't_ want you ?" Billy's eyes widened a little.
"Why, Bertram, dear, don't you see?
When you were so troubled that the picture didn't go well, and I found out it was about me you were troubled--I--" "Well ?" Bertram's voice was a little strained.
"Why, of--of course," stammered Billy, "I couldn't help thinking that maybe you had found out you _didn't_ want me." "_Didn't want you!_" groaned Bertram, his tense muscles relaxing.

"May I ask why ?" Billy blushed.
"I wasn't quite sure why," she faltered; "only, of course, I thought of--of Miss Winthrop, you know, or that maybe it was because you didn't care for _any_ girl, only to paint--oh, oh, Bertram! Pete told us," she broke off wildly, beginning to sob.
"Pete told you that I didn't care for any girl, only to paint ?" demanded Bertram, angry and mystified.
"No, no," sobbed Billy, "not that.

It was all the others that told me that! Pete told Aunt Hannah about the accident, you know, and he said--he said--Oh, Bertram, I _can't_ say it! But that's one of the things that made me know I _could_ come now, you see, because I--I wouldn't hinder you, nor slay your Art, nor any other of those dreadful things if--if you couldn't ever--p-paint again," finished Billy in an uncontrollable burst of grief.
"There, there, dear," comforted Bertram, patting the bronze-gold head on his breast.