In a voice shaken with emotion, Billy repeated the fateful words.
“I never—when did I say that?”
“The night Uncle William and I came home from—Pete's.”
For a moment Bertram stared dumbly; then a shamed red swept to his forehead.
“Billy, did I say that? I ought to be shot if I did. But, Billy, you said you'd forgiven me!”
“I did, dear—truly I did; but, don't you see?—it was true. I hadn't tended to things. So I've been doing it since.”
A sudden comprehension illuminated Bertram's face.
“Heavens, Billy! And is that why you haven't been anywhere, or done anything? Is that why Calderwell said to-day that you hadn't been with them anywhere, and that—Great Scott, Billy! Did you think I was such a selfish brute as that?”
“Oh, but when I was going with them I was following the book—I thought,” quavered Billy; and hurriedly she turned the leaves to a carefully marked passage. “It's there—about the outside interests. See? I was trying to brush up against them, so that I wouldn't interfere with your Art. Then, when you accused me of gallivanting off with—” But Bertram swept her back into his arms, and not for some minutes could Billy make a coherent speech again.
Then Bertram spoke.