“But the announcements—oh, you weren't here then,” moaned Billy. “But you must have known that—that he came here a good deal—that we were together so much!”
“To a certain extent, yes,” sighed Arkwright. “But I took your friendship with him and his brothers as—as a matter of course. That was my 'matter of course,' you see,” he went on bitterly. “I knew you were Mr. William Henshaw's namesake, and Calderwell had told me the story of your coming to them when you were left alone in the world. Calderwell had said, too, that—” Arkwright paused, then hurried on a little constrainedly—“well, he said something that led me to think Mr. Bertram Henshaw was not a marrying man, anyway.”
Billy winced and changed color. She had noticed the pause, and she knew very well what it was that Calderwell had said to occasion that pause. Must always she be reminded that no one expected Bertram Henshaw to love any girl—except to paint?
“But—but Mr. Calderwell must know about the engagement—now,” she stammered.
“Very likely, but I have not happened to hear from him since my arrival in Boston. We do not correspond.”
There was a long silence, then Arkwright spoke again.
“I think I understand now—many things. I wonder I did not see them before; but I never thought of Bertram Henshaw's being—If Calderwell hadn't said—” Again Arkwright stopped with his sentence half complete, and again Billy winced. “I've been a blind fool. I was so intent on my own—I've been a blind fool; that's all,” repeated Arkwright, with a break in his voice.
Billy tried to speak, but instead of words, there came only a choking sob.
Arkwright turned sharply.
“Miss Neilson, don't—please,” he begged. “There is no need that you should suffer—too.”