“Perhaps you would like a nap, too, Mrs. Hartwell,” suggested Billy, as they passed into the living-room. There was a curious note of almost hopefulness in her voice.
Mrs. Hartwell scorned naps, and she said so very emphatically. She said something else, too.
“Billy, why do you always call me 'Mrs. Hartwell' in that stiff, formal fashion? You used to call me 'Aunt Kate.'”
“But I was very young then.” Billy's voice was troubled. Billy had been trying so hard for the last two hours to be the graciously cordial hostess to this woman—Bertram's sister.
“Very true. Then why not 'Kate' now?”
Billy hesitated. She was wondering why it seemed so hard to call Mrs. Hartwell “Kate.”
“Of course,” resumed the lady, “when you're Bertram's wife and my sister—”
“Why, of course,” cried Billy, in a sudden flood of understanding. Curiously enough, she had never before thought of Mrs. Hartwell as her sister. “I shall be glad to call you 'Kate'—if you like.”
“Thank you. I shall like it very much, Billy,” nodded the other cordially. “Indeed, my dear, I'm very fond of you, and I was delighted to hear you were to be my sister. If only—it could have stayed William instead of Bertram.”
“But it couldn't,” smiled Billy. “It wasn't William—that I loved.”