"Oh, perhaps it wasn't your fault, Adam? You are not to blame? She tempted you?"
"I only am to blame."
"'Deed if I believe you have brains enough to know who is to blame."
"Yes, I have that much, but no more. Oh, Billy Little, don't—don't." Billy turned upon the piano-stool, and again began to play.
Dic had known that Billy would be angry, but he was not prepared for this avalanche of wrath. Billy had grown desperately fond of Rita. No one could know better than he the utter folly and hopelessness of his passion; but the realization of folly and a sense of hopelessness do not shut folly out of the heart. If they did, there would be less suffering in the world. Billy's love was a strange combination of that which might be felt by a lover and a father. He had not hoped or desired ever to possess the girl, and his love for Dic had made it not only easy, but joyous to surrender her to him. Especially was he happy over the union because it would insure her happiness. His love was so unselfish that he was willing to give up not only the girl, but himself, his blood, his life, for her sweet sake. With all his love for Dic, that young man was chiefly important as a means to Rita's happiness, and now he had become worse than useless because he was a source of wretchedness to her. You may understand, then, the reason for Billy's extreme anger against this young man, who since childhood had been his friend, almost as dear as if he were his son.
After rambling over the keys for two or three minutes, he turned savagely upon Dic, saying:—
"I wish you would tell me why you come to me for advice. You don't take it."
"Yes, I do, Billy Little. I value your advice above every one else's."
"Stuff and nonsense. I warned you against that girl—the dimpler: much you heeded me. Do you think I'm a free advice factory? Get out of here, get out of here, I say, and let me never see your face—"
"Oh, Billy Little, don't, don't," cried Dic. "You can't forsake me after all these years you have helped me. You can't do it, Billy Little!"