“But you'll take my ticket,” begged Billy.
Miss Greggory shook her head.
“Certainly not.”
“But I want you to, please. I shall be very unhappy if you don't,” grieved Billy.
The other made a peremptory gesture.
“I should be very unhappy if I did,” she said with cold emphasis. “Really, Miss Neilson,” she went on in a low voice, throwing an apprehensive glance at the man ahead, who was apparently absorbed in his newspaper, “I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to let me go on in my own way. You are very kind, but there is nothing you can do; nothing. You were very kind, too, of course, to send the book and the flowers to mother at Christmas; but—”
“Never mind that, please,” interrupted Billy, hurriedly. Billy's head was lifted now. Her eyes were no longer pleading. Her round little chin looked square and determined. “If you simply will not take my ticket this afternoon, you must do this. Go to some restaurant near here and get a good luncheon—something that will sustain you. I will take your place here.”
“Miss Neilson!”
Billy smiled radiantly. It was the first time she had ever seen Alice Greggory's haughtily cold reserve break into anything like naturalness—the astonished incredulity of that “Miss Neilson!” was plainly straight from the heart; so, too, were the amazed words that followed.
“You—will stand here?”