She jerked her hand away and laughed, her small nose wrinkled, the dimple coming and going. "Don't you like it?"
"Sure. It's classy, all right. But what is the long of it?"
"Wilhelmina. Dad's is William, just like yours. We're all Billies."
"Mine ain't William," sneered the Watermelon, edging a bit nearer.
Her eyes opened and she stared in frank surprise. "But the papers say—"
"The papers lie faster than I can," said the Watermelon, "and that's fairly speedy." He had only an hour and he did not care what she thought between him and the papers. "Billy is a darned cute little name, and a cute little girl," he added.
"I guess you can lie faster than the papers," said she.
"I can when I want to," admitted the Watermelon. "Father used to say that a man that couldn't lie was a fool and one who wouldn't, a bigger."
"I should think if your father was a minister that he wouldn't lie," said Billy severely.
"I know. But he used to say he had to in a business way. To tell a man that there was a bigger hell than this earth was a lie on the face of it."