“Shall I go back and beat him up?” he asked, overtaking Billee, who was hurrying away.
“No,” she said a little hysterically, and laughing, “come, he probably took me for someone else.” But King thought otherwise.
One evening they wandered from a picture play and found a seat in Washington Square.
“See here, Billee,” he said, “I don’t know what your secret is, but we have about reached the limit in some things. I am going to be blunt, even rude, you will think; but last week you borrowed a carfare of me and your gloves are frightful. And your dress!—come, it’s all wrong. You won’t marry me, won’t talk about it even; let’s switch off and you be just a trusting little friend in all things until your affairs straighten out. You need things. The fact keeps me unhappy. I have plenty of money; let me be banker and provide everything. And if your job isn’t pleasant or profitable, drop it. There is no need for you to do menial work or be at the beck and call of exacting old ladies. I can take care of you until you find a congenial occupation.”
But her face was something more than a study when he looked into it after the offer, which had embarrassed him not a little. Her mouth trembled and her eyes turned from him.
“You mean—you want to—want me to take a flat somewhere and—let you—pay the rent?”
“Good God, no!” She watched him as though fascinated by a vision.
“King, it would be wonderful—just to see you coming and going every day!”
“Billee!” She laughed and suddenly hid her face.
“What a boy it is, still!” She looked up shyly. “No, King, when you are your own man and successful and other men speak your name with admiration and you are so secure in your field you can marry whom you please, even a girl who has done menial work—if you want me then, I will come to you, and the flat, if you want a flat. Till then, it’s—just sweethearts.”