“What's that? Oh, yes. Well, I don't know; maybe I do.”
“You would—if you didn't hear him any oftener than I do,” laughed Billy. “But then, of course you do hear him oftener.”
“I? Oh, no, indeed. Not so very much oftener.” Alice had turned back to her music. There was a slight embarrassment in her manner. “I wonder—where—that new song—is,” she murmured.
Billy, who knew very well where the song lay, was not to be diverted.
“Nonsense! As if Mr. Arkwright wasn't always telling how Alice liked this song, and didn't like that one, and thought the other the best yet! I don't believe he sings a thing that he doesn't first sing to you. For that matter, I fancy he asks your opinion of everything, anyway.”
“Why, Billy, he doesn't!” exclaimed Alice, a deep red flaming into her cheeks. “You know he doesn't.”
Billy laughed gleefully. She had not been slow to note the color in her friend's face, or to ascribe to it the one meaning she wished to ascribe to it. So sure, indeed, was she now that her fears had been groundless, that she flung caution to the winds.
“Ho! My dear Alice, you can't expect us all to be blind,” she teased. “Besides, we all think it's such a lovely arrangement that we're just glad to see it. He's such a fine fellow, and we like him so much! We couldn't ask for a better husband for you than Mr. Arkwright, and—” From sheer amazement at the sudden white horror in Alice Greggory's face, Billy stopped short. “Why, Alice!” she faltered then.
With a visible effort Alice forced her trembling lips to speak.
“My husband—Mr. Arkwright! Why, Billy, you couldn't have seen—you haven't seen—there's nothing you could see! He isn't—he wasn't—he can't be! We—we're nothing but friends, Billy, just good friends!”