In the den neither Billy nor Bertram knew or cared what had become of Aunt Hannah and Pete. There were just two people in their world—two people, and unutterable, incredible, overwhelming rapture and peace. Then, very gradually it dawned over them that there was, after all, something strange and unexplained in it all.
“But, dearest, what does it mean—you here like this?” asked Bertram then. As if to make sure that she was “here, like this,” he drew her even closer—Bertram was so thankful that he did have one arm that was usable.
Billy, on her knees by the couch, snuggled into the curve of the one arm with a contented little sigh.
“Well, you see, just as soon as I found out to-night that you wanted me, I came,” she said.
“You darling! That was—” Bertram stopped suddenly. A puzzled frown showed below the fantastic bandage about his head. “'As soon as,'” he quoted then scornfully. “Were you ever by any possible chance thinking I didn't want you?”
Billy's eyes widened a little.
“Why, Bertram, dear, don't you see? When you were so troubled that the picture didn't go well, and I found out it was about me you were troubled—I—”
“Well?” Bertram's voice was a little strained.
“Why, of—of course,” stammered Billy, “I couldn't help thinking that maybe you had found out you didn't want me.”
“Didn't want you!” groaned Bertram, his tense muscles relaxing. “May I ask why?”