Billy blushed pink again.
“Why, maybe; but—well, homesickness is always more or less sudden; isn't it?” she parried.
Bertram laughed, but his eyes grew suddenly almost tender.
“See here, Billy, you can't bluff worth a cent,” he declared. “You are much too refreshingly frank for that. Something was the trouble. Now what was it? Won't you tell me, please?”
Billy pouted. She hesitated and gazed anywhere but into the challenging eyes before her. Then very suddenly she looked straight into them.
“Very well, there WAS a reason for my leaving,” she confessed a little breathlessly. “I—didn't want to—bother you any more—all of you.”
“Bother us!”
“No. I found out. You couldn't paint; Mr. Cyril couldn't play or write; and—and everything was different because I was there. But I didn't blame you—no, no!” she assured him hastily. “It was only that I—found out.”
“And may I ask HOW you obtained this most extraordinary information?” demanded Bertram, savagely.
Billy shook her head. Her round little chin looked suddenly square and determined.