"And I may come to-morrow?" he asks, holding my hand closely.
"Yes—but—but—I cannot give you the handkerchief before mother and Dora," I murmur, blushing hotly.
"True, I had forgotten that important handkerchief. But perhaps you could manage to walk with me as far as she entrance-gate, could you?"
"I don't know," I return doubtfully, "If not, I can give it to you some other day."
"So you can. Keep it until I am fortunate enough to meet you again. I shall probably get on without it until then."
So with a smile and a backward nod and glance, we part.
For some time after he has left us, Billy and I move on together without speaking, a most unusual thing, when I break the silence by my faltering tones.
"Billy," I say, trembling with hope and fear, "Billy tell me the truth. That time, you know, did I show very much of my leg?"
"Not more than an inch or two above the garter," he answers, in an encouraging tone, and for a full minute I feel that with cheerfulness I could attend the funeral of my brother Billy.
I am mortified to the last degree. Unbidden tears rise to my eyes. Even though I might have known a more soothing answer to be false, still with rapture I would have hailed it. There is a brutal enjoyment of the scene in his whole demeanor that stings me sorely. I begin to compare dear Roly with my younger brother in a manner highly unflattering to the latter. If Roland had been here in Billy's place to day, instead of being as he always is with that tiresome regiment in some forgotten corner, all might have been different. He at least being a man, would have felt for me. How could I have been mad enough to look for sympathy from a boy?