“Well, I'm sure that's a nice, solid name,” defended Billy, her chin still at a challenging tilt. “If it isn't 'Methuselah John,' what is it, then?”
But Alice Greggory shook her head. She, too, it seemed, could be firm, on occasion. And though she smiled brightly, all she would say, was:
“If he hasn't told you, I sha'n't. You'll have to go to him.”
“Oh, well, I can still call him 'Mary Jane,'” retorted Billy, with airy disdain.
All this, however, so far as Billy could see, was not in the least helping along the cause that had become so dear to her—the reuniting of a pair of lovers. It occurred to her then, one day, that perhaps, after all, they were not lovers, and did not wish to be reunited. At this disquieting thought Billy decided, suddenly, to go almost to headquarters. She would speak to Mrs. Greggory if ever the opportunity offered. Great was her joy, therefore, when, a day or two after the Greggorys arrived at the house, Mrs. Greggory's chance reference to Arkwright and her daughter gave Billy the opportunity she sought.
“They used to know each other long ago, Mr. Arkwright tells me,” Billy began warily.
“Yes.”
The quietly polite monosyllable was not very encouraging, to be sure; but Billy, secure in her conviction that her cause was a righteous one, refused to be daunted.
“I think it was so romantic—their running across each other like this, Mrs. Greggory,” she murmured. “And there was a romance, wasn't there? I have just felt in my bones that there was—a romance!”
Billy held her breath. It was what she had meant to say, but now that she had said it, the words seemed very fearsome indeed—to say to Mrs. Greggory. Then Billy remembered her Cause, and took heart—Billy was spelling it now with a capital C.