“But Bertram!—it's so absurd.”
“Absurd!” The smile was gone now.
“Yes. Forgive me, Billy, but I was about as much surprised to hear of Bertram's engagement as I was of Cyril's.”
Billy grew a little white.
“But Bertram was never an avowed—woman-hater, like Cyril, was he?”
“'Woman-hater'—dear me, no! He was a woman-lover, always. As if his eternal 'Face of a Girl' didn't prove that! Bertram has always loved women—to paint. But as for his ever taking them seriously—why, Billy, what's the matter?”
Billy had risen suddenly.
“If you'll excuse me, please, just a few minutes,” Billy said very quietly. “I want to speak to Rosa in the kitchen. I'll be back—soon.”
In the kitchen Billy spoke to Rosa—she wondered afterwards what she said. Certainly she did not stay in the kitchen long enough to say much. In her own room a minute later, with the door fast closed, she took from her table the photograph of Bertram and held it in her two hands, talking to it softly, but a little wildly.
“I didn't listen! I didn't stay! Do you hear? I came to you. She shall not say anything that will make trouble between you and me. I've suffered enough through her already! And she doesn't know—she didn't know before, and she doesn't now. She's only imagining. I will not not—not believe that you love me—just to paint. No matter what they say—all of them! I will not!”