His eyes had been averted, mostly, as he talked. Now he swung suddenly upon her.
“He's on de square, ain't he?” he demanded.
“Yes,” said Barbara. She was not quite sure whether to feel offended, or not. But the memory of Billy's antecedents came to his rescue. Of course he didn't know that it was such terribly bad form to broach such a subject to her, she thought.
“Well, then,” continued the mucker, “wot's up? Mallory's de guy fer youse. Youse loved him or youse wouldn't have got engaged to him.”
The statement was almost an interrogation.
Barbara nodded affirmatively.
“You see, Billy,” she started, “I have always known Mr. Mallory, and always thought that I loved him until—until—” There was no answering light in Billy's eyes—no encouragement for the words that were on her lips. She halted lamely. “Then,” she went on presently, “we became engaged after we reached New York. We all thought you dead,” she concluded simply.
“Do you think as much of him now as you did when you promised to marry him?” he asked, ignoring her reference to himself and all that it implied.
Barbara nodded.
“What is at the bottom of this row?” persisted Billy. He had fallen back into the decent pronunciation that Barbara had taught him, but neither noticed the change. For a moment he had forgotten that he was playing a part. Then he recollected.