Billy was not a young woman that did things by halves. Long ago, in the days of her childhood, her Aunt Ella had once said of her: “If only Billy didn't go into things all over, so; but whether it's measles¹ or mud pies, I always know that she'll be the measliest or the muddiest of any child in town!” It could not be expected, therefore, that Billy would begin to play her new rôle now with any lack of enthusiasm. But even had she needed any incentive², there was still ever ringing in her ears Bertram's accusing: “If you'd tend to your husband and your home a little more—” Billy still declared very emphatically that she had forgiven Bertram; but she knew, in her heart, that she had not forgotten.

 

Certainly, as the days passed, it could not be said that Billy was not tending to her husband and her home. From morning till night, now, she tended to nothing else. She seldom touched her piano—save to dust it—and she never touched her half-finished song-manuscript, long since banished³ to the oblivion of the music cabinet. She made no calls except occasional flying visits to the Annex⁴, or to the pretty new home where Marie and Cyril were now delightfully⁵ settled. The opera and the Symphony were over for the season, but even had they not been, Billy could not have attended them. She had no time. Surely she was not doing any “gallivanting” now, she told herself sometimes, a little aggrievedly.

 

There was, indeed, no time. From morning until night Billy was busy, flying from one task to another. Her ambition to have everything just right was equalled only by her dogged determination to “just show them” that she could do this thing. At first, of course, hampered⁸ as she was by ignorance and inexperience, each task consumed about twice as much time as was necessary. Yet afterwards, when accustomedness had brought its reward of speed, there was still for Billy no time; for increased knowledge had only opened the way to other paths, untrodden and

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