True, at the very first, Billy had donned a ruffled apron and a bewitching dust-cap, and had traversed the house from cellar to garret with a prettily important air of ``managing things,'' as she suggested changes right and left. She had summoned Pete, too, for three mornings in succession, and with great dignity had ordered the meals for the day. But when Bertram was discovered one evening tugging back his favorite chair, and when William had asked if Billy were through using his pipe-tray, the young wife had concluded to let things remain about as they were. And when William ate no breakfast one morning, and Bertram aggrievedly refused dessert that night at dinner, Billy--learning through an apologetic Pete that Master William always had to have eggs for breakfast no matter what else there was, and that Master Bertram never ate boiled rice--gave up planning the meals. True, for three more mornings she summoned Pete for ``orders,'' but the orders were nothing more nor less than a blithe ``Well, Pete, what are we going to have for dinner to-day?'' By the end of a week even this ceremony was given up, and before a month had passed, Billy was little more than a guest in her own home, so far as responsibility was concerned.
Billy was not idle, however; far from it. First, there were the delightful hours with Bertram.
Then there was her music: Billy was writing a new song--the best she had ever written, Billy declared.
``Why, Bertram, it can't help being that,'' she said to her husband, one day. ``The words just sang themselves to me right out of my heart;and the melody just dropped down from the sky.
And now, everywhere, I'm hearing the most wonderful harmonies. The whole universe is singing to me. If only now I can put it on paper what I hear! Then I can make the whole universe sing to some one else!''
Even music, however, had to step one side for the wedding calls which were beginning to be received, and which must be returned, in spite of the occasional rebellion of the young husband.
There were the more intimate friends to be seen, also, and Cyril and Marie to be visited. And always there was the Annex.
The Annex was in fine running order now, and was a source of infinite satisfaction to its founder and great happiness to its beneficiaries. Tommy Dunn was there, learning wonderful things from books and still more wonderful things from the piano in the living-room. Alice Greggory and her mother were there, too--the result of much persuasion. Indeed, according to Bertram, Billy had been able to fill the Annex only by telling each prospective resident that he or she was absolutely necessary to the welfare and happiness of every other resident. Not that the house was full, either. There were still two unoccupied rooms.
``But then, I'm glad there are,'' Billy had declared, ``for there's sure to be some one that I'll want to send there.''
``Some _one_, did you say?'' Bertram had retorted, meaningly; but his wife had disdained to answer this.
Billy herself was frequently at the Annex.
She told Aunt Hannah that she had to come often to bring the happiness--it accumulated so fast.
Certainly she always found plenty to do there, whenever she came. There was Aunt Hannah to be read to, Mrs. Greggory to be sung to, and Tommy Dunn to be listened to; for Tommy Dunn was always quivering with eagerness to play her his latest ``piece.''
Billy knew that some day at the Annex she would meet Mr. M. J. Arkwright; and she told herself that she hoped she should.
Billy had not seen Arkwright (except on the stage of the Boston Opera House) since the day he had left her presence in white-faced, stony-eyed misery after declaring his love for her, and learning of her engagement to Bertram. Since then, she knew, he had been much with his old friend, Alice Greggory. She did not believe, should she see him now, that he would be either white-faced, or stony-eyed. His heart, she was sure, had gone where it ought to have gone in the first place--to Alice. Such being, in her opinion, the case, she longed to get the embarrassment of a first meeting between themselves over with, for, after that, she was sure, their old friendship could be renewed, and she would be in a position to further this pretty love affair between him and Alice. Very decidedly, therefore, Billy wished to meet Arkwright. Very pleased, consequently, was she when, one day, coming into the living-room at the Annex, she found the man sitting by the fire.
Arkwright was on his feet at once.
``Miss--Mrs. H--Henshaw,'' he stammered``Oh, Mr. Arkwright,'' she cried, with just a shade of nervousness in her voice as she advanced, her hand outstretched. ``I'm glad to see you.''
``Thank you. I wanted to see Miss Greggory,''
he murmured. Then, as the unconscious rudeness of his reply dawned on him, he made matters infinitely worse by an attempted apology. ``That is, I mean--I didn't mean--'' he began to stammer miserably.
Some girls might have tossed the floundering man a straw in the shape of a light laugh intended to turn aside all embarrassment--but not Billy.
Billy held out a frankly helping hand that was meant to set the man squarely on his feet at her side.
``Mr. Arkwright, don't, please,'' she begged earnestly. ``You and I don't need to beat about the bush. I _am_ glad to see you, and I hope you're glad to see me. We're going to be the best of friends from now on, I'm sure; and some day, soon, you're going to bring Alice to see me, and we'll have some music. I left her up-stairs. She'll be down at once, I dare say--I met Rosa going up with your card. Good-by,'' she finished with a bright smile, as she turned and walked rapidly from the room.
Outside, on the steps, Billy drew a long breath.
``There,'' she whispered; ``that's over--and well over!'' The next minute she frowned vexedly.
She had missed her glove. ``Never mind!
I sha'n't go back in there for it now, anyway,''
she decided.
In the living-room, five minutes later, Alice Greggory found only a hastily scrawled note waiting for her.
