“As well as my own?”
Hildegarde’s face grew hard with the words, “As well as Jack Galbraith’s.”
Bella, too, was grave enough now; “I haven’t broken his heart. But—I’ve got a crack in my own. Only”—she lifted her pretty eyes with an air almost of panic—“only nobody else is to know. You”—she came nearer and laid a nervous hand on Hildegarde’s firm arm—“you must help me to keep everybody from knowing.”
“Dear,” was all Hildegarde’s answer, but she leaned her cheek against Bella’s thin face.
“And there’s another thing,” the younger girl went on a little feverishly, still clinging to Hildegarde’s arm, “I hate talking about it.”
“Of course. Just at first, it must be—”
“No, it isn’t ‘of course’ and it’s not only at first. It’s for always. Most girls talk their love affairs to tatters. I’ve noticed that. I want you to help me to—to keep my—” Her voice went out upon a sudden flood of tears. Hildegarde drew her into the window-seat and sat down beside her. They were silent for a time, until Bella laid her wet face down on her friend’s shoulder with, “Mind, Hildegarde! We aren’t to talk about it. Not even you and I. John Galbraith is too—too—” She raised her head, drew her small hand across her eyes, and then sprang up and faced the window, as if some enemy without had challenged her. “It may be that I don’t understand what a great man he is, as Mr. Borisoff says. But, at least, I know he’s not the sort of person to be chattered over.”
Hildegarde remembered with a sting how for years she had “chattered” with Galbraith for her theme. And she hadn’t little Bella’s excuse. Yes, it was always like this. She was for ever stumbling upon something dignified and fine in Butterfly Bella.
The pretty tear-stained face was lifted to the sunlight, and the childish red mouth, so used to laughter, was pitifully grave, as Bella, staring up into the square of sky over Hildegarde’s head said: “He is up there!”
“Jack!” Hildegarde exclaimed in a half-whisper.