The old man paled a little. He had seen a doctor, and he had not liked what the doctor had told him. In fact, he stubbornly refused to believe what the doctor had said. He straightened himself now a little aggressively.
``Humph! Beggin' yer pardon, Miss--ma'am, but I don't think much o' them doctor chaps.''
Billy shook her head again as she smiled and turned away. Then, as if casually, she asked:
``Oh, did Mr. Bertram go out, Pete?''
``Yes, Miss; about five o'clock. He said he'd be back to dinner.''
``Oh! All right.''
From the hall the telephone jangled sharply.
``I'll go,'' said Pete's mistress, as she turned and hurried up-stairs.
It was Bertram's voice that answered her opening ``Hullo.''
``Oh, Billy, is that you, dear? Well, you're just the one I wanted. I wanted to say--that is, I wanted to ask you--'' The speaker cleared his throat a little nervously, and began all over again. ``The fact is, Billy, I've run across a couple of old classmates on from New York, and they are very anxious I should stay down to dinner with them. Would you mind--very much if Idid?''
A cold hand seemed to clutch Billy's heart.
She caught her breath with a little gasp and tried to speak; but she had to try twice before the words came.
``Why, no--no, of course not!'' Billy's voice was very high-pitched and a little shaky, but it was surpassingly cheerful.
``You sure you won't be--lonesome?'' Bertram's voice was vaguely troubled.
``Of course not!''
``You've only to say the word, little girl,''
came Bertram's anxious tones again, ``and Iwon't stay.''
Billy swallowed convulsively. If only, only he would _stop_ and leave her to herself! As if she were going to own up that _she_ was lonesome for _him_--if _he_ was not lonesome for _her!_
``Nonsense! of course you'll stay,'' called Billy, still in that high-pitched, shaky treble. Then, before Bertram could answer, she uttered a gay ``Good-by!'' and hung up the receiver.
Billy had ten whole minutes in which to cry before Pete's gong sounded for dinner; but she had only one minute in which to try to efface the woefully visible effects of those ten minutes before William tapped at her door, and called:
``Gone to sleep, my dear? Dinner's ready.
Didn't you hear the gong?''
``Yes, I'm coming, Uncle William.'' Billy spoke with breezy gayety, and threw open the door; but she did not meet Uncle William's eyes.
Her head was turned away. Her hands were fussing with the hang of her skirt.
``Bertram's dining out, Pete tells me,'' observed William, with cheerful nonchalance, as they went down-stairs together.
Billy bit her lip and looked up sharply. She had been bracing herself to meet with disdainful indifference this man's pity--the pity due a poor neglected wife whose husband _preferred_ to dine with old classmates rather than with herself.
Now she found in William's face, not pity, but a calm, even jovial, acceptance of the situation as a matter of course. She had known she was going to hate that pity; but now, curiously enough, she was conscious only of anger that the pity was not there--that she might hate it.
She tossed her head a little. So even William --Uncle William--regarded this monstrous thing as an insignificant matter of everyday experience.
Maybe he expected it to occur frequently--every night, or so. Doubtless he did expect it to occur every night, or so. Indeed! Very well. As if she were going to show _now_ that she cared whether Bertram were there or not! They should see.
So with head held high and eyes asparkle, Billy marched into the dining-room and took her accustomed place.
