Bertram looked up quickly. An odd change had come to his face. For a moment he gazed silently into Billy's agitated countenance; then he asked in a low voice:
“Billy, did you think that after you and William were married I should still continue to live at—the Strata?”
“Why, of course you will!” cried the girl, indignantly. “Why, Bertram, you'll be my brother then—my real brother; and one of the very chiefest things I'm anticipating when I go there to live is the good times you and I will have together when I'm William's wife!”
Bertram drew in his breath audibly, and caught his lower lip between his teeth. With an abrupt movement he turned his back and walked to the window. For a full minute he stayed there, watched by the amazed, displeased eyes of the girl. When he came back he sat down quietly in the chair facing Billy. His countenance was grave and his eyes were a little troubled; but the haggard look of misery was quite gone.
“Billy,” he began gently, “you must forgive my saying this, but—are you quite sure you—love William?”
Billy flushed with anger.
“You have no right to ask such a question. Of course I love William.”
“Of course you do—we all love William. William is, in fact, a most lovable man. But William's wife should, perhaps, love him a little differently from—all of us.”
“And she will, certainly,” retorted the girl, with a quick lifting of her chin. “Bertram, I don't think you have any right to—to make such insinuations.”
“And I won't make them any more,” replied Bertram, gravely. “I just wanted you to make sure that you—knew.”