“Jolly room,” said Billy; “at least, I always think so.”
“Yes,” said Lady Ingleby. “So do I.”
Billy’s eyes, roaming anxiously around for fresh inspiration, lighted on the portrait over the mantelpiece. He started and paled. Then he knew his hour had come. There must be no more beating about the bush.
Billy was a soldier, and a brave one. He had led a charge once, running up a hill ahead of his men, in face of a perfect hail of bullets. First came Billy; then the battalion. Not a man could keep within fifty yards of him. They always said afterwards that Billy came through that charge alive, because he sprinted so fast, that no bullets could touch him. He rushed at the subject now, with the same headlong courage.
“Lady Ingleby,” he said, “there is something Ronnie and I both think you ought to know.”
“Is there, Billy?” said Myra. “Then suppose you tell it me.”
“We have sworn not to tell,” continued Billy; “but I don’t care a damn—I mean a pin—for an oath, if your happiness is at stake.”
“You must not break an oath, Billy, even for my sake,” said Myra, gently.
“Well, you see—if you wished it, you were to be the one exception.”
Suddenly Lady Ingleby understood. “Oh, Billy!” she said. “Does Ronald wish me to be told?”