“Gone, so soon?” groaned Bertram, as William passed his plate, with a smiling nod. “Oh, well,” went on Bertram, resignedly, “she stayed longer than the last one. When is the next one coming?”
“She's already here.”
Bertram frowned.
“Here? But—you served the dessert, and—” At something in Billy's face, a quick suspicion came into his own. “Billy, you don't mean that you—you—”
“Yes,” she nodded brightly, “that's just what I mean. I'm the next one.”
“Nonsense!” exploded Bertram, wrathfully. “Oh, come, Billy, we've been all over this before. You know I can't have it.”
“Yes, you can. You've got to have it,” retorted Billy, still with that disarming, airy cheerfulness. “Besides, 'twon't be half so bad as you think. Wasn't that a good pudding to-night? Didn't you both come back for more? Well, I made it.”
“Puddings!” ejaculated Bertram, with an impatient gesture. “Billy, as I've said before, it takes something besides puddings to run this house.”
“Yes, I know it does,” dimpled Billy, “and I've got Mrs. Durgin for that part. She's coming twice a week, and more, if I need her. Why, dearie, you don't know anything about how comfortable you're going to be! I'll leave it to Uncle William if—”
But Uncle William had gone. Silently he had slipped from his chair and disappeared. Uncle William, it might be mentioned in passing, had never quite forgotten Aunt Hannah's fateful call with its dire revelations concerning a certain unwanted, superfluous, third-party husband's brother. Remembering this, there were times when he thought absence was both safest and best. This was one of the times.