Miss Billy Married Part 13

"Why, no--no, of course not!" Billy's voice was very high-pitched and a little shaky, but it was surpa.s.singly 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 I won'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 cla.s.smates 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.

CHAPTER VII. THE BIG BAD QUARREL

It was a brilliant dinner--because Billy made it so. At first William met her sallies of wit with mild surprise; but it was not long before he rose gallantly to the occasion, and gave back full measure of retort.

Even Pete twice had to turn his back to hide a smile, and once his hand shook so that the tea he was carrying almost spilled. This threatened catastrophe, however, seemed to frighten him so much that his face was very grave throughout the rest of the dinner.

Still laughing and talking gayly, Billy and Uncle William, after the meal was over, ascended to the drawing-room. There, however, the man, in spite of the young woman's gay badinage, fell to dozing in the big chair before the fire, leaving Billy with only s.p.u.n.kie for company--s.p.u.n.kie, who, disdaining every effort to entice her into a romp, only winked and blinked stupid eyes, and finally curled herself on the rug for a nap.

Billy, left to her own devices, glanced at her watch.

Half-past seven! Time, almost, for Bertram to be coming. He had said "dinner"; and, of course, after dinner was over he would be coming home--to her. Very well; she would show him that she had at least got along without him as well as he had without her. At all events he would not find her forlornly sitting with her nose pressed against the window-pane! And forthwith Billy established herself in a big chair (with its back carefully turned toward the door by which Bertram would enter), and opened a book.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes pa.s.sed. Billy fidgeted in her chair, twisted her neck to look out into the hall--and dropped her book with a bang.

Uncle William jerked himself awake, and s.p.u.n.kie opened sleepy eyes. Then both settled themselves for another nap. Billy sighed, picked up her book, and flounced back into her chair. But she did not read.

Disconsolately she sat staring straight ahead--until a quick step on the sidewalk outside stirred her into instant action. a.s.suming a look of absorbed interest she twitched the book open and held it before her face.... But the step pa.s.sed by the door: and Billy saw then that her book was upside down.

Five, ten, fifteen more minutes pa.s.sed. Billy still sat, apparently reading, though she had not turned a page. The book now, however, was right side up. One by one other minutes pa.s.sed till the great clock in the hall struck nine long strokes.

"Well, well, bless my soul!" mumbled Uncle William, resolutely forcing himself to wake up. "What time was that?"

"Nine o'clock." Billy spoke with tragic distinctness, yet very cheerfully.

"Eh? Only nine?" blinked Uncle William. "I thought it must be ten. Well, anyhow, I believe I'll go up-stairs. I seem to be unusually sleepy."

Billy said nothing. "'Only nine,' indeed!" she was thinking wrathfully.

At the door Uncle William turned.

"You're not going to sit up, my dear, of course," he remarked.

For the second time that evening a cold hand seemed to clutch Billy's heart.

_Sit up!_ Had it come already to that? Was she even now a wife who had need to _sit up_ for her husband?

"I really wouldn't, my dear," advised Uncle William again. "Good night."

"Oh, but I'm not sleepy at all, yet," Billy managed to declare brightly.

"Good night."

Then Uncle William went up-stairs.

Billy turned to her book, which happened to be one of William's on "Fake Antiques."

"'To collect anything, these days, requires expert knowledge, and the utmost care and discrimination,'" read Billy's eyes. "So Uncle William _expected_ Bertram was going to spend the whole evening as well as stay to dinner!" ran Billy's thoughts. "'The enormous quant.i.ty of bijouterie, Dresden and Battersea enamel ware that is now flooding the market, is made on the Continent--and made chiefly for the American trade,'"

continued the book.

"Well, who cares if it is," snapped Billy, springing to her feet and tossing the volume aside. "s.p.u.n.kie, come here! You've simply got to play with me. Do you hear? I want to be gay--_gay_--GAY! He's gay. He's down there with those men, where he wants to be. Where he'd _rather_ be than be with me! Do you think I want him to come home and find me moping over a stupid old book? Not much! I'm going to have him find me gay, too.

Now, come, s.p.u.n.kie; hurry--wake up! He'll be here right away, I'm sure."

And Billy shook a pair of worsted reins, hung with little soft b.a.l.l.s, full in s.p.u.n.kie's face.

But s.p.u.n.kie would not wake up, and s.p.u.n.kie would not play. She pretended to. She bit at the reins, and sank her sharp claws into the dangling b.a.l.l.s. For a fleeting instant, even, something like mischief gleamed in her big yellow eyes. Then the jaws relaxed, the paws turned to velvet, and s.p.u.n.kie's sleek gray head settled slowly back into lazy comfort.

s.p.u.n.kie was asleep.

Billy gazed at the cat with reproachful eyes.

"And you, too, s.p.u.n.kie," she murmured. Then she got to her feet and went back to her chair. This time she picked up a magazine and began to turn the leaves very fast, one after another.

Half-past nine came, then ten. Pete appeared at the door to get s.p.u.n.kie, and to see that everything was all right for the night.

"Mr. Bertram is not in yet?" he began doubtfully.

Billy shook her head with a bright smile.

"No, Pete. Go to bed. I expect him every minute. Good night."

"Thank you, ma'am. Good night."