Billy hesitated. To her mind, a girl who would tell of the unrequited love of a man for herself, was unspeakably base. To tell Bertram Arkwright's love story was therefore impossible. Yet, in some way, she must set Bertram's mind at rest.
“Dearest,” she began slowly, her eyes wistfully pleading, “just what it is, I can't tell you. In a way it's another's secret, and I don't feel that I have the right to tell it. It's just something that I learned this afternoon.”
“But it has made you cry!”
“Yes. It made me feel very unhappy.”
“Then—it was something you couldn't help?”
To Bertram's surprise, the face he was watching so intently flushed scarlet.
“No, I couldn't help it—now; though I might have—once.” Billy spoke this last just above her breath. Then she went on, beseechingly: “Bertram, please, please don't talk of it any more. It—it's just spoiling our happy evening together!”
Bertram bit his lip, and drew a long sigh.
“All right, dear; you know best, of course—since I don't know anything about it,” he finished a little stiffly.
Billy began to talk then very brightly of Aunt Hannah and her shawls, and of a visit she had made to Cyril and Marie that morning.