“Forget it! Why, Bertram, I couldn't! You couldn't, if you'd been there. Besides, of course I shall see them again!”
Bertram's jaw dropped.
“Why, Billy, you don't mean that Will, or you either, would try again for that trumpery teapot!”
“Of course not,” flashed Billy, heatedly. “It isn't the teapot—it's that dear little Mrs. Greggory. Why, dearie, you don't know how poor they are! Everything in sight is so old and thin and worn it's enough to break your heart. The rug isn't anything but darns, nor the tablecloth, either—except patches. It's awful, Bertram!”
“I know, darling; but you don't expect to buy them new rugs and new tablecloths, do you?”
Billy gave one of her unexpected laughs.
“Mercy!” she chuckled. “Only picture Miss Alice's face if I should try to buy them rugs and tablecloths! No, dear,” she went on more seriously, “I sha'n't do that, of course—though I'd like to; but I shall try to see Mrs. Greggory again, if it's nothing more than a rose or a book or a new magazine that I can take to her.”
“Or a smile—which I fancy will be the best gift of the lot,” amended Bertram, fondly.
Billy dimpled and shook her head.
“Smiles—my smiles—are not so valuable, I'm afraid—except to you, perhaps,” she laughed.