Billy took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at her. "You do jump to conclusions."
"Oh, I know Harry better than any of you."
"Do you?" he asked, seeming just a little disturbed.
The Nun marked his disturbance with a side glance of amusement, but she was not diverted from the main line of her thoughts. "He doesn't want me to come to Meriton—"
"I say, Doris, did Harry Belfield ever try to—?"
"Tales out of school? I thought you knew me, Billy."
The reproach carried home to Billy. There had been one occasion when, over-night, his career had seemed not so imperative, and Doris had seemed very imperative indeed, demanding vows and protestations of high fervour, bearing only one legitimate interpretation. This happened long before Billy was K.C. or M.P., and when his income was still meagre. The morning had brought back counsel, and thoughts of the career. Billy had written a letter. The next time they met, she had taken occasion to observe that she always burnt letters, just as she never fell in love. The episode was not among Billy's proudest recollections. In telling Andy that Billy had always pulled himself up on the brink, the Nun had been guilty of just this one suppression. No tales out of school was always her motto.
"If he does come to grief, it'll be over a woman," said Billy. He took a big puff. "That's the only thing worth coming to grief over, either," he added, looking into his companion's eyes.
"What about the great cause I sang for?" she asked, serenely evasive. Sentiment in a motor-car at night really does not count.
Billy laughed. "I do my best for my client."