“The game is finished; besides—Billy, why are you always asking me lately where Marie is, as if I were her keeper, or she mine?” he demanded, with a touch of nervous irritation.
“Why, nothing, Bertram,” smiled Billy, a little wearily; “only that you were playing together a few minutes ago, and I wondered where she had gone.”
“'A few minutes ago'!” echoed Bertram with sudden bitterness. “Evidently the time passed swiftly with you, Billy. William was out here MORE than an hour.”
“Why—Bertram!”
“Yes, I know. I've no business to say that, of course,” sighed the man; “but, Billy, that's why I came out—because I must speak to you this once. Won't you come and sit down, please?” he implored despairingly.
“Why, Bertram,” murmured Billy again, faintly, as she turned toward the vine-shaded corner and sat down. Her eyes were startled. A swift color had come to her cheeks.
“Billy,” began the man, in a sternly controlled voice, “please let me speak this once, and don't try to stop me. You may think, for a moment, that it's disloyal to William if you listen; but it isn't. There's this much due to me—that you let me speak now. Billy, I can't stand it. I've tried, but it's no use. I've got to go away, and it's right that I should. I'm not the only one that thinks so, either. Marie does, too.”
“MARIE!”
“Yes. I talked it all over with her. She's known for a long time how it's been with me; how I cared—for you.”
“Marie! You've told Marie that?” gasped Billy.