“Oh, but I'm not sleepy at all, yet,” Billy managed to declare brightly. “Good night.”
Then Uncle William went up-stairs.
Billy turned to her book, which happened to be one of William's on “Fake Antiques.”
“'To collect anything, these days, requires expert knowledge, and the utmost care and discrimination,'” read Billy's eyes. “So Uncle William expected Bertram was going to spend the whole evening as well as stay to dinner!” ran Billy's thoughts. “'The enormous quantity of bijouterie, Dresden and Battersea enamel ware that is now flooding the market, is made on the Continent—and made chiefly for the American trade,'” continued the book.
“Well, who cares if it is,” snapped Billy, springing to her feet and tossing the volume aside. “Spunkie, come here! You've simply got to play with me. Do you hear? I want to be gay—gay—GAY! He's gay. He's down there with those men, where he wants to be. Where he'd rather be than be with me! Do you think I want him to come home and find me moping over a stupid old book? Not much! I'm going to have him find me gay, too. Now, come, Spunkie; hurry—wake up! He'll be here right away, I'm sure.” And Billy shook a pair of worsted reins, hung with little soft balls, full in Spunkie's face.
But Spunkie would not wake up, and Spunkie would not play. She pretended to. She bit at the reins, and sank her sharp claws into the dangling balls. For a fleeting instant, even, something like mischief gleamed in her big yellow eyes. Then the jaws relaxed, the paws turned to velvet, and Spunkie's sleek gray head settled slowly back into lazy comfort. Spunkie was asleep.
Billy gazed at the cat with reproachful eyes.
“And you, too, Spunkie,” she murmured. Then she got to her feet and went back to her chair. This time she picked up a magazine and began to turn the leaves very fast, one after another.
Half-past nine came, then ten. Pete appeared at the door to get Spunkie, and to see that everything was all right for the night.
“Mr. Bertram is not in yet?” he began doubtfully.