“But I wish I had one definite big gift, Billy,” said Susan, on a July afternoon, when she and Mr. Oliver were on the ferry boat, going to Sausalito.  It was a Sunday, and Susan thought that Billy looked particularly well to-day, felt indeed, with some discomfort, that he was better groomed and better dressed than she was, and that there was in him some new and baffling quality, some reserve that she could not command.  His quick friendly smile did not hide the fact that his attention was not all hers; he seemed pleasantly absorbed in his own thoughts.  Susan gave his clean-shaven, clear-skinned face many a half-questioning look as she sat beside him on the boat.  He was more polite, more gentle, more kind that she remembered him—­what was missing, what was wrong to-day?

It came to her suddenly, half-astonished and half-angry, that he was no longer interested in her.  Billy had outgrown her, he had left her behind.  He did not give her his confidence to-day, nor ask her advice.  He scowled now and then, as if some under-current of her chatter vaguely disturbed him, but offered no comment.  Susan felt, with a little, sick pressure at her heart, that somehow she had lost an old friend!

He was stretched out comfortably, his long legs crossed before him, his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, and his half-shut, handsome eyes fixed on the rushing strip of green water that was visible between the painted ropes of the deck-rail.

“And what are your own plans, Sue?” he presently asked, unsmilingly.

Susan was chilled by the half-weary tone.

“Well, I’m really just resting and helping Auntie, now,” Susan said cheerfully.  “But in the fall—–­” she made a bold appeal to his interest, “—­in the fall I think I shall go to New York?”

“New York?” he echoed, aroused.  “What for?”

“Oh, anything!” Susan answered confidently.  “There are a hundred chances there to every one here,” she went on, readily, “institutions and magazines and newspapers and theatrical agencies—­ Californians always do well in New York!”

“That sounds like Mary Lou,” said Billy, drily.  “What does she know about it?”

Susan flushed resentfully.

“Well, what do you!” she retorted with heat.

“No, I’ve never been there,” admitted Billy, with self-possession.  “But I know more about it than Mary Lou!  She’s a wonder at pipe-dreams,—­my Lord, I’d rather have a child of mine turned loose in the street than be raised according to Mary Lou’s ideas!  I don’t mean,” Billy interrupted himself to say seriously, “that they weren’t all perfectly dandy to me when I was a kid—­you know how I love the whole bunch!  But all that dope about not having a chance here, and being ‘unlucky’ makes me weary!  If Mary Lou would get up in the morning, and put on a clean dress, and see how things were going in the kitchen, perhaps she’d know more about the boarding-house, and less about New York!”