“That’s very sweet of you, Billy,” she said, with a touch of gravity in her manner. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“Nonsense. Think what old friends we are. If you will take pity on my loneliness, and all that, I shall feel that I am the one who should be grateful.” He rose from his chair and came over to where she sat, near the desk. “Do you know, Edith,” he said suddenly, “that in all the time I have been away I don’t suppose a single day went by that I did not think of you?”
“Don’t tell me that, Billy. If you thought of me once in six months you did well.” Her nervous laugh, as she attempted to meet his gaze, sounded unconvincing. She almost began to believe that he had thought of her every day.
“Do you remember that picture you once gave me—the one in the big Leghorn hat?”
“Why, yes,” she answered slowly.
“I’ve had it on my dresser always, wherever I’ve been—it was the last thing I looked at when I went to bed at night. So, you see, I did think of you every day—honestly.”
She felt her color coming—something in his manner, as he stood there gazing down at her, alarmed her. She felt that he still loved her, and that it would be only a question of time until he should tell her so. She was by no means prepared for any such rupture in their friendly relations, for rupture she knew it would certainly be, should he speak. She rose hastily and went toward the piano.
“Shall I play for you?” she asked. In the past it had been his invariable habit to ask her to do so.
“Will you?” His voice showed his appreciation of the fact that she had remembered.
“What would you like?”