Arkwright drew in his breath.
“We'll hope—it'll really be so,” he murmured.
There was a moment's silence. Arkwright seemed to be hesitating what to say.
“Well?” prompted Billy, with a smile. “We have the hero and the heroine; now what happens next? Do you know,” she added, “I have always thought that part must bother the story-writers—to get the couple to doing interesting things, after they'd got them introduced.”
Arkwright sighed.
“Perhaps—on paper; but, you see, my story has been lived, so far. So it's quite different.”
“Very well, then—what did happen?” smiled Billy.
“I was trying to think—of the first thing. You see it began with a picture, a photograph of the girl. Mother had it. I saw it, and wanted it, and—” Arkwright had started to say “and took it.” But he stopped with the last two words unsaid. It was not time, yet, he deemed, to tell this girl how much that picture had been to him for so many months past. He hurried on a little precipitately. “You see, I had heard about this girl a lot; and I liked—what I heard.”
“You mean—you didn't know her—at the first?” Billy's eyes were surprised. Billy had supposed that Arkwright had always known Alice Greggory.
“No, I didn't know the girl—till afterwards. Before that I was always dreaming and wondering what she would be like.”