“Oh, of course, I knew I couldn't—really,” sighed Marie, as she turned to go up-stairs, all the light and joy gone from her face.
Billy, once assured that Marie was out of hearing, ran to the telephone.
Bertram answered.
“Bertram, tell Cyril I want to speak to him, please.”
“All right, dear, but go easy. Better strike up your tuning fork to find his pitch to-day. You'll discover it's a high one, all right.”
A moment later Cyril's tersely nervous “Good morning, Billy,” came across the line.
Billy drew in her breath and cast a hurriedly apprehensive glance over her shoulder to make sure Marie was not near.
“Cyril,” she called in a low voice, “if you care a shred for Marie, for heaven's sake call her up and tell her that you dote on pink roses, and pink ribbons, and pink breakfasts—and pink wedding cake!”
“But I don't.”
“Oh, yes, you do—to-day! You would—if you could see Marie now.”