“Why, Aunt Hannah, what do you mean?” Bertram's voice was not quite pleased.
“Oh, she'll tell you. It's only that the Greggorys have turned out to be old friends of Mr. Arkwright's.”
“Friends of Arkwright's!” Bertram's voice was decidedly displeased now.
“Yes; and there's quite a story to it all, as well. Billy is wildly excited, as you'd know she would be. You'll hear all about it to-night, of course.”
“Yes, of course,” echoed Bertram. But there was no ring of enthusiasm in his voice, neither then, nor when he said good-by a moment later.
Billy, meanwhile, on her way to the Greggory home, was, as Aunt Hannah had said, “wildly excited.” It seemed so strange and wonderful and delightful—the whole affair: that she should have found them because of a Lowestoft teapot, that Arkwright should know them, and that there should be the chance now that she might help them—in some way; though this last, she knew, could be accomplished only through the exercise of the greatest tact and delicacy. She had not forgotten that Arkwright had told her of their hatred of pity.
In the sober second thought of the morning, Billy was not sure now of a possible romance in connection with Arkwright and the daughter, Alice; but she had by no means abandoned the idea, and she meant to keep her eyes open—and if there should be a chance to bring such a thing about—! Meanwhile, of course, she should not mention the matter, even to Bertram.
Just what would be her method of procedure this first morning, Billy had not determined. The pretty potted azalea in her hand would be excuse for her entrance into the room. After that, circumstances must decide for themselves.
Mrs. Greggory was found to be alone at home as before, and Billy was glad. She would rather begin with one than two, she thought. The little woman greeted her cordially, gave misty-eyed thanks for the beautiful plant, and also for Billy's kind thoughtfulness Friday afternoon. From that she was very skilfully led to talk more of the daughter; and soon Billy was getting just the information she wanted—information concerning the character, aims, and daily life of Alice Greggory.
“You see, we have some money—a very little,” explained Mrs. Greggory, after a time; “though to get it we have had to sell all our treasures—but the Lowestoft,” with a quick glance into Billy's eyes. “We need not, perhaps, live in quite so poor a place; but we prefer—just now—to spend the little money we have for something other than imitation comfort—lessons, for instance, and an occasional concert. My daughter is studying even while she is teaching. She hopes to train herself for an accompanist, and for a teacher. She does not aspire to concert solo work. She understands her limitations.”