Billy did, indeed, seem anxious to get away. She announced her intended departure at once to the family. She called it a visit to her old home, and she seemed very glad in her preparations. If there was anything forced in this gayety, no one noticed it, or at least, no one spoke of it. The family saw very little of Billy, indeed, these days. She said that she was busy; that she had packing to do. She stopped taking lessons of Cyril, and visited Bertram's studio only once during the whole three days before she went away, and then merely to get some things that belonged to her. On the fourth day, almost before the family realized what was happening, she was gone; and with her had gone Mrs. Stetson and Spunk.
The family said they liked it—the quiet, the freedom. They said they liked to be alone—all but William. He said nothing.
And yet—
When Bertram went to his studio that morning he did not pick up his brushes until he had sat for long minutes before the sketch of a red-cheeked, curly-headed young girl whose eyes held a peculiarly wistful appeal; and Cyril, at his piano up-stairs, sat with idle fingers until they finally drifted into a simple little melody—the last thing Billy had been learning.
It was Pete who brought in the kitten; and Billy had been gone a whole week then.
“The poor little beast was cryin' at the alleyway door, sir,” he explained. “I—I made so bold as to bring him in.”
“Of course,” said William. “Did you feed it?”
“Yes, sir; Ling did.”
There was a pause, then Pete spoke, diffidently.
“I thought, sir, if ye didn't mind, I'd keep it. I'll try to see that it stays down-stairs, sir, out of yer way.”