Bertram sighed impatiently and opened his lips—only to close them with the words unsaid. There was nothing he could do, and he had already said too much, he thought, with a savage glance at the man ahead who still had enough of his paper left to serve for a pretence at reading. As Bertram could see, however, the man was not reading a word—he was too acutely conscious of the handsome young woman in the long sealskin coat behind him. Billy was already the cynosure of dozens of eyes, and Bertram knew that his own arrival on the scene had not lessened the interest of the owners of those eyes. He only hoped devoutly that no one in the line knew him ar Billy, and that no one quite knew what had happened. He did not wish to see himself and his fiancée the subject of inch-high headlines in some evening paper figuring as:
“Talented young composer and her famous artist lover take poor girl's place in a twenty-five-cent ticket line.”
He shivered at the thought.
“Are you cold?” worried Billy. “If you are, don't stand here, please!”
He shook his head silently. His eyes were searching the street for the only one whose coming could bring him relief.
It must have been but a coffee-and-sandwich luncheon for the girl, for soon she came. The man surmised that it was she, as soon as he saw her, and stepped back at once. He had no wish for introductions. A moment later the girl was in Billy's place, and Billy herself was at his side.
“That was Alice Greggory, Bertram,” she told him, as they walked on swiftly; “and Bertram, she was actually almost crying when she took my place.”
“Humph! Well, I should think she'd better be,” growled Bertram, perversely.
“Pooh! It didn't hurt me any, dearie,” laughed Billy with a conciliatory pat on his arm as they turned down the street upon which her friend lived. “And now can you come in and see May a minute?”
“I'm afraid not,” regretted Bertram. “I wish I could, but I'm busier than busy to-day—and I was supposed to be already late when I saw you. Jove, Billy, I just couldn't believe my eyes!”