“Of course not! You don't have to hug anything, you know.”
For answer he impetuously swept the offending linen into the nearest chair and drew the girl into his arms.
“Oh! And see how you've crushed poor Marie's table-cloth!” she cried, with reproachful eyes.
Bertram sniffed imperturbably.
“I'm not sure but I'd like to crush Marie,” he alleged.
“Bertram!”
“I can't help it. See here, Billy.” He loosened his clasp and held the girl off at arm's length, regarding her with stormy eyes. “It's Marie, Marie, Marie—always. If I telephone in the morning, you've gone shopping with Marie. If I want you in the afternoon for something, you're at the dressmaker's with Marie. If I call in the evening—”
“I'm here,” interrupted Billy, with decision.
“Oh, yes, you're here,” admitted Bertram, aggrievedly, “and so are dozens of napkins, miles of table-cloths, and yards upon yards of lace and flummydiddles you call 'doilies.' They all belong to Marie, and they fill your arms and your thoughts full, until there isn't an inch of room for me. Billy, when is this thing going to end?”
Billy laughed softly. Her eyes danced.