"She's mine too. Funny, isn't it? I think you've committed bigamy."
"Is she really little and blue-eyed and red-haired?" I asked, "or was that poetic license?"
"Honest truth. She's the prettiest thing in the world—except you. And I've written her all about it."
"Did she know that I didn't know you were you?" I asked somewhat incoherently. But he understood. That was one of the nice things about Bill—recently, anyway. He was the Person Who Understood.
He nodded.
"Yes, but she didn't know everything—not that we were married."
"Why?" I asked, curiously.
He smiled down at me, very big, very protective.
"Why, you see," said Bill gently, "she knew that I loved you. And she'd got to love you too. After all, she has a weakness for me, and an unbounded faith in my choice. And so—well, I didn't want to disappoint her—didn't want her to know how matters stood—that we weren't quite happy. So I waited. After a while, I grew afraid that she would have to be told after all—"
"Please, don't," I said hastily. "What did you write her?"