“It's just down the street a bit and up the hill,” he added excitedly, divining her purpose. “It's a sort of a boarding-house, I reckon.”
“A boarding-house—for Uncle William!” scorned Billy, her eyes ablaze. “Come, Bertram, we'll see about that.”
Bertram reached out a detaining hand.
“But, dearest, you're so tired,” he demurred. “Hadn't we better wait till after dinner, or till to-morrow?”
“After dinner! To-morrow!” Billy's eyes blazed anew. “Why, Bertram Henshaw, do you think I'd leave that dear man even one minute longer, if I could help it, with a notion in his blessed old head that we didn't want him?”
“But you said a little while ago you had a headache, dear,” still objected Bertram. “If you'd just eat your dinner!”
“Dinner!” choked Billy. “I wonder if you think I could eat any dinner with Uncle William turned out of his home! I'm going to find Uncle William.” And she stumbled blindly toward the door.
Bertram reached for his hat. He threw a despairing glance into Pete's eyes.
“We'll be back—when we can,” he said, with a frown.
“Yes, sir,” answered Pete, respectfully. Then, as if impelled by some hidden force, he touched his master's arm. “It was that way she looked, sir, when she came to you—that night last July—with her eyes all shining,” he whispered.