Bertram said little—very little, that night; but in the morning he went straight to Billy.
Billy was shocked. She had never seen the smiling, self-reliant, debonair Bertram like this.
“Billy, is this true?” he demanded. The dull misery in his voice told Billy that he knew the answer before he asked the question.
“Yes, yes; but, Bertram, please—please don't take it like this!” she implored.
“How would you have me take it?”
“Why, just—just sensibly. You know I told you that—that the other never could be—never.”
“I know YOU said so; but I—believed otherwise.”
“But I told you—I did not love you—that way.”
Bertram winced. He rose to his feet abruptly.
“I know you did, Billy. I'm a fool, of course, to think that I could ever—change it. I shouldn't have come here, either, this morning. But I—had to. Good-by!” His face, as he held out his hand, was tragic with renunciation.