Miss Billy's Decision Part 49

"That's good. Won't you repent and go, too?"

"No--oh, no, indeed!"

"All right, then; good-by. I'm sorry!"

"So'm I. Good-by," sighed Aunt Hannah, as she hung up the receiver and turned away.

It was after five o'clock when Billy got home, and so hurried were the dressing and the dinner that Aunt Hannah forgot to mention Bertram's telephone call till just as Billy was ready to start for the Greggorys'.

"There! and I forgot," she confessed. "Bertram called you up just after you left this morning, my dear."

"Did he?" Billy's face was turned away, but Aunt Hannah did not notice that.

"Yes. Oh, he didn't want anything special," smiled the lady, "only--well, he did ask if you were all right this morning," she finished with quiet mischief.

"Did he?" murmured Billy again. This time there was a little sound after the words, which Aunt Hannah would have taken for a sob if she had not known that it must have been a laugh.

Then Billy was gone.

At eight o'clock the doorbell rang, and a minute later Rosa came up to say that Mr. Bertram Henshaw was down-stairs and wished to see Mrs.

Stetson.

Mrs. Stetson went down at once.

"Why, my dear boy," she exclaimed, as she entered the room; "Billy said you had a banquet on for to-night!"

"Yes, I know; but--I didn't go." Bertram's face was pale and drawn. His voice did not sound natural.

"Why, Bertram, you look ill! _Are_ you ill?" The man made an impatient gesture.

"No, no, I'm not ill--I'm not ill at all. Rosa says--Billy's not here."

"No; she's gone to the opera with the Greggorys."

"The _opera!_" There was a grieved hurt in Bertram's voice that Aunt Hannah quite misunderstood. She hastened to give an apologetic explanation.

"Yes. She would have told you--she would have asked you to join them, I'm sure, but she said you were going to a banquet. I'm _sure_ she said so."

"Yes, I did tell her so--last night," nodded Bertram, dully.

Aunt Hannah frowned a little. Still more anxiously she endeavored to explain to this disappointed lover why his sweetheart was not at home to greet him.

"Well, then, of course, my boy, she'd never think of your coming here to-night; and when she found Mr. Arkwright was going to sing--"

"Arkwright!" There was no listlessness in Bertram's voice or manner now.

"Yes. Didn't you see it in the paper? Such a splendid chance for him!

His picture was there, too."

"No. I didn't see it."

"Then you don't know about it, of course," smiled Aunt Hannah. "But he's to take the part of Johnson in 'The Girl of the Golden West.' Isn't that splendid? I'm so glad! And Billy was, too. She hurried right off this morning to get the tickets and to ask the Greggorys."

"Oh!" Bertram got to his feet a little abruptly, and held out his hand.

"Well, then, I might as well say good-by then, I suppose," he suggested with a laugh that Aunt Hannah thought was a bit forced. Before she could remind him again, though, that Billy was really not to blame for not being there to welcome him, he was gone. And Aunt Hannah could only go up-stairs and meditate on the unreasonableness of lovers in general, and of Bertram in particular.

Aunt Hannah had gone to bed, but she was still awake, when Billy came home, so she heard the automobile come to a stop before the door, and she called to Billy when the girl came upstairs.

"Billy, dear, come in here. I'm awake! I want to hear about it. Was it good?"

Billy stopped in the doorway. The light from the hall struck her face.

There was no brightness in her eyes now, no pink in her cheeks.

"Oh, yes, it was good--very good," she replied listlessly.

"Why, Billy, how queer you answer! What was the matter? Wasn't Mary Jane--all right?"

"Mary Jane? Oh!--oh, yes; he was very good, Aunt Hannah."

"'Very good,' indeed!" echoed the lady, indignantly. "He must have been!--when you speak as if you'd actually forgotten that he sang at all, anyway!"

Billy had forgotten--almost. Billy had found that, in spite of her getting away from the house, she had not got away from herself once, all day. She tried now, however, to summon her acting powers of the morning.

"But it was splendid, really, Aunt Hannah," she cried, with some show of animation. "And they clapped and cheered and gave him any number of curtain calls. We were so proud of him! But you see, I _am_ tired," she broke off wearily.

"You poor child, of course you are, and you look like a ghost! I won't keep you another minute. Run along to bed. Oh--Bertram didn't go to that banquet, after all. He came here," she added, as Billy turned to go.

"Bertram!" The girl wheeled sharply.

"Yes. He wanted you, of course. I found I didn't do, at all," chuckled Aunt Hannah. "Did you suppose I would?"

There was no answer. Billy had gone.

In the long night watches Billy fought it out with herself. (Billy had always fought things out with herself.) She must go away. She knew that.

Already Bertram had telephoned, and called. He evidently meant to see her--and she could not see him. She dared not. If she did--Billy knew now how pitifully little it would take to make her actually _willing_ to slay Bertram's Art, stifle his Ambition, destroy his Inspiration, and be a nuisance generally--if only she could have Bertram while she was doing it all. Sternly then she asked herself if she had no pride; if she had forgotten that it was because of her that the Winthrop portrait had not been a success--because of her, either for the reason that he loved now Miss Winthrop, or else that he loved no girl--except to paint.

Very early in the morning a white-faced, red-eyed Billy appeared at Aunt Hannah's bedside.

"Billy!" exclaimed Aunt Hannah, plainly appalled.

Billy sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Aunt Hannah," she began in a monotonous voice as if she were reciting a lesson she had learned by heart, "please listen, and please try not to be too surprised. You were saying the other day that you would like to visit your old home town. Well, I think that's a very nice idea. If you don't mind we'll go to-day."

Aunt Hannah pulled herself half erect in bed.

"_To-day_--child?"