“Lose me! Why, Bertram Henshaw, what do you mean?”
A shamed red crept to the man's forehead.
“Well, I suppose I might as well own up now as any time. I was scared blue, Billy, with jealousy of—Arkwright.”
Billy laughed gayly—but she shifted her position and did not meet her lover's eyes.
“Arkwright? Nonsense!” she cried. “Why, he's going to marry Alice Greggory. I know he is! I can see it as plain as day in her letters. He's there a lot.”
“And you never did think for a minute, Billy, that you cared for him?” Bertram's gaze searched Billy's face a little fearfully. He had not been slow to mark that swift lowering of her eyelids. But Billy looked him now straight in the face—it was a level, frank gaze of absolute truth.
“Never, dear,” she said firmly. (Billy was so glad Bertram had turned the question on her love instead of Arkwright's!) “There has never really been any one but you.”
“Thank God for that,” breathed Bertram, as he drew the bright head nearer and held it close.
After a minute Billy stirred and sighed happily.
“Aren't lovers the beat'em for imagining things?” she murmured.