Miss Greggory's thin shoulders rose and fell in an expressive shrug.
“Half-past one.”
Billy gave a dismayed cry.
“Half-past one—almost two hours more! But, Miss Greggory, you can't—how can you stand it till then? You've shivered three times since I came, and you look as if you were going to faint away.”
Miss Greggory shook her head.
“It is nothing, really,” she insisted. “I am quite well. It is only—I didn't happen to feel like eating much breakfast this morning; and that, with no luncheon—” She let a gesture finish her sentence.
“No luncheon! Why—oh, you couldn't leave your place, of course,” frowned Billy.
“No, and”—Alice Greggory lifted her head a little proudly—“I do not care to eat—here.” Her scornful eyes were on one of the pieces of pie down the line—no longer a triangle.
“Of course not,” agreed Billy, promptly. She paused, frowned, and bit her lip. Suddenly her face cleared. “There! the very thing,” she exulted. “You shall have my ticket this afternoon, Miss Greggory, then you won't have to stay here another minute. Meanwhile, there is an excellent restaurant—”
“Thank you—no. I couldn't do that,” cut in the other, sharply, but in a low voice.