“Billy, dear, come in here. I'm awake! I want to hear about it. Was it good?”
Billy stopped in the doorway. The light from the hall struck her face. There was no brightness in her eyes now, no pink in her cheeks.
“Oh, yes, it was good—very good,” she replied listlessly.
“Why, Billy, how queer you answer! What was the matter? Wasn't Mary Jane—all right?”
“Mary Jane? Oh!—oh, yes; he was very good, Aunt Hannah.”
“'Very good,' indeed!” echoed the lady, indignantly. “He must have been!—when you speak as if you'd actually forgotten that he sang at all, anyway!”
Billy had forgotten—almost. Billy had found that, in spite of her getting away from the house, she had not got away from herself once, all day. She tried now, however, to summon her acting powers of the morning.
“But it was splendid, really, Aunt Hannah,” she cried, with some show of animation. “And they clapped and cheered and gave him any number of curtain calls. We were so proud of him! But you see, I am tired,” she broke off wearily.
“You poor child, of course you are, and you look like a ghost! I won't keep you another minute. Run along to bed. Oh—Bertram didn't go to that banquet, after all. He came here,” she added, as Billy turned to go.
“Bertram!” The girl wheeled sharply.