But there was no time for any inward reflections just then, for her attack on Edward bore very quick results. Instead of giving fire for fire as a real coward would do with some one smaller and weaker than himself, Edward buried his face in his hands and burst into a perfect tempest of sobs.
“Oh, don’t,” cried Billie, remorsefully. “It was cruel of me to speak in that way. I was very angry, but it’s all over now, and I apologize. I must have hurt you awfully. Of course you’re not a coward.”
“No, no. You are quite right. I am a coward. Every word you said was true. I am afraid of everything: the daylight and the dark and draughts and people. I am even afraid of the only thing I want to do in the world—be a musician; because my grandmother threatens to cut me off with a shilling if I touch the piano. I am afraid of being poor. You were right in saying I was afraid of the truth, because it hurts, and what you said hurt me terribly. I sometimes wonder why I was ever born. I have always been so miserable.”
“You poor boy,” said Billie, all the kindness in her nature rising to the top. “I am so sorry I hurt you. Won’t you forgive me?” she asked, putting her hand on his arm.
“Oh, yes,” he answered. “I’m not angry with you. I wish I could be mad just once. I have always been afraid of scenes.”
“Well, don’t say again you wish you had never been born, because perhaps some day you may be awfully glad you were, and then you would be sorry you had said it. After all, you have an easier time than Edward l’Estrange. Think how hard he has to work, and Virginia, too. If you were to change places——” she began, when the English boy interrupted her.
“Do you think we are very much alike?” he demanded with some excitement in his voice.
“Wonderfully.”
“Why not change places then? Our accents are not so very different. I can run boats and automobiles and Edward l’Estrange can——”
“Can fight your battles,” Billie thought, but she said aloud, “Can take your place for a while?”