She would ask about his work, and seem interested. She _was_ interested. She remembered now, that just before he was hurt, he had told her of a new portrait, and of a new ``Face of a Girl'' that he had planned to do. Lately he had said nothing about these. He had seemed discouraged--and no wonder, with his broken arm!
But she would change all that. He should see!
And forthwith Billy hurried to her closet to pick out her prettiest house frock.
Long before dinner Billy was ready, waiting in the drawing-room. She had on a pretty little blue silk gown that she knew Bertram liked, and she watched very anxiously for Bertram to come up the steps. She remembered now, with a pang, that he had long since given up his peculiar ring; but she meant to meet him at the door just the same.
Bertram, however, did not come. At a quarter before six he telephoned that he had met some friends, and would dine at the club.
``My, my, how pretty we are!'' exclaimed Uncle William, when they went down to dinner together. ``New frock?''
``Why, no, Uncle William,'' laughed Billy, a little tremulously. ``You've seen it dozens of times!''
``Have I?'' murmured the man. ``I don't seem to remember it. Too bad Bertram isn't here to see you. Somehow, you look unusually pretty to-night.''
And Billy's heart ached anew.
Billy spent the evening practicing--softly, to be sure, so as not to wake Baby--but _practicing_.
As the days passed Billy discovered that it was much easier to say she would ``change things'' than it was really to change them. She changed herself, it is true--her clothes, her habits, her words, and her thoughts; but it was more difficult to change Bertram. In the first place, he was there so little. She was dismayed when she saw how very little, indeed, he was at home--and she did not like to ask him outright to stay. That was not in accordance with her plans. Besides, the ``Talk to Young Wives''
said that indirect influence was much to be preferred, always, to direct persuasion--which last, indeed, usually failed to produce results.
So Billy ``dressed up,'' and practiced, and talked (of anything but the baby), and even hinted shamelessly once or twice that she would like to go to the theater; but all to little avail.
True, Bertram brightened up, for a minute, when he came home and found her in a new or a favorite dress, and he told her how pretty she looked.
He appeared to like to have her play to him, too, even declaring once or twice that it was quite like old times, yes, it was. But he never noticed her hints about the theater, and he did not seem to like to talk about his work, even a little bit.
Billy laid this last fact to his injured arm. She decided that he had become blue and discouraged, and that he needed cheering up, especially about his work; so she determinedly and systematically set herself to doing it.
She talked of the fine work he had done, and of the still finer work he would yet do, when his arm was well. She told him how proud she was of him, and she let him see how dear his Art was to her, and how badly she would feel if she thought he had really lost all his interest in his work and would never paint again. She questioned him about the new portrait he was to begin as soon as his arm would let him; and she tried to arouse his enthusiasm in the picture he had planned to show in the March Exhibition of the Bohemian Ten, telling him that she was sure his arm would allow him to complete at least one canvas to hang.
In none of this, however, did Bertram appear in the least interested. The one thing, indeed, which he seemed not to want to talk about, was his work; and he responded to her overtures on the subject with only moody silence, or else with almost irritable monosyllables; all of which not only grieved but surprised Billy very much. For, according to the ``Talk to Young Wives,'' she was doing exactly what the ideal, sympathetic, interested-in-her-husband's-work wife should do.
When February came, bringing with it no change for the better, Billy was thoroughly frightened. Bertram's arm plainly was not improving. He was more gloomy and restless than ever. He seemed not to want to stay at home at all; and Billy knew now for a certainty that he was spending more and more time with Bob Seaver and ``the boys.''
Poor Billy! Nowhere could she look these days and see happiness. Even the adored baby seemed, at times, almost to give an added pang. Had he not become, according to the ``Talk to Young Wives'' that awful thing, a _Wedge_? The Annex, too, carried its sting; for where was the need of an overflow house for happiness now, when there was no happiness to overflow? Even the little jade idol on Billy's mantel Billy could not bear to see these days, for its once bland smile had become a hideous grin, demanding, ``Where, now, is your heap plenty velly good luckee?''
But, before Bertram, Billy still carried a bravely smiling face, and to him still she talked earnestly and enthusiastically of his work--which last, as it happened, was the worst course she could have pursued; for the one thing poor Bertram wished to forget, just now, was--his work.
