“Yes. Surely you don't mind Marie's knowing,” went on Bertram, dejectedly. “And she's been so good to me, and tried to—help me.”
Bertram was not looking at Billy now. If he had been he would have seen the incredulous joy come into her face. His eyes were moodily fixed on the floor.
“And so, Billy, I've come to tell you. I'm going away,” he continued, after a moment. “I've got to go. I thought once, when I first talked with you of William, that you didn't know your own heart; that you didn't really care for him. I was even fool enough to think that—that it would be I to whom you'd turn—some day. And so I stayed. But I stayed honorably, Billy! YOU know that! You know that I haven't once forgotten—not once, that I was only William's brother. I promised you I'd be that—and I have been; haven't I?”
Billy nodded silently. Her face was turned away.
“But, Billy, I can't do it any longer. I've got to ask for my promise back, and then, of course, I can't stay.”
“But you—you don't have to go—away,” murmured the girl, faintly.
Bertram sprang to his feet. His face was white.
“Billy,” he cried, standing tall and straight before her, “Billy, I love every touch of your hand, every glance of your eye, every word that falls from your lips. Do you think I can stay—now? I want my promise back! When I'm no longer William's brother—then I'll go!”
“But you don't have to have it back—that is, you don't have to have it at all,” stammered Billy, flushing adorably. She, too, was on her feet now.
“Billy, what do you mean?”