Billy was, in fact, quite pluming herself on the adroit casualness with which she had introduced the subject nearest her heart.
Calderwell raised his eyebrows.
``Oh, yes, I see her.''
``But you hadn't mentioned her.''
There was the briefest of pauses; then with a half-quizzical dejection, there came the remark:
``You seem to forget. I told you that I stayed here this summer for reasons too numerous, and one too heart-breaking, to mention. She was the _one_.''
``You mean--''
``Yes. The usual thing. She turned me down.
Oh, I haven't asked her yet as many times as Idid you, but--''
``_Hugh!_''
Hugh tossed her a grim smile and went on imperturbably.
``I'm older now, of course, and know more, perhaps. Besides, the finality of her remarks was not to be mistaken.''
Billy, in spite of her sympathy for Calderwell, was conscious of a throb of relief that at least one stumbling-block was removed from Arkwright's possible pathway to Alice's heart.
``Did she give any special reason?'' hazarded Billy, a shade too anxiously.
``Oh, yes. She said she wasn't going to marry anybody--only her music.''
``Nonsense!'' ejaculated Billy, falling back in her chair a little.
``Yes, I said that, too,'' gloomed the man;``but it didn't do any good. You see, I had known another girl who'd said the same thing once.'' (He did not look up, but a vivid red flamed suddenly into Billy's cheeks.) ``And she --when the right one came--forgot all about the music, and married the man. So I naturally suspected that Alice would do the same thing.
In fact, I said so to her. I was bold enough to even call the man by name--I hadn't been jealous of Arkwright for nothing, you see--but she denied it, and flew into such an indignant allegation that there wasn't a word of truth in it, that I had to sue for pardon before I got anything like peace.''
``Oh-h!'' said Billy, in a disappointed voice, falling quite back in her chair this time.
``And so that's why I'm wanting especially just now to see the wheels go 'round,'' smiled Calderwell, a little wistfully. ``Oh, I shall get over it, I suppose. It isn't the first time, I'll own--but some day I take it there will be a last time. Enough of this, however! You haven't told me a thing about yourself. How about it?
When I come back, are you going to give me a dinner cooked by your own fair hands? Going to still play Bridget?''
Billy laughed and shook her head.
``No; far from it. Eliza has come back, and her cousin from Vermont is coming as second girl to help her. But I _could_ cook a dinner for you if I had to now, sir, and it wouldn't be potato-mush and cold lamb,'' she bragged shamelessly, as there sounded Bertram's peculiar ring, and the click of his key in the lock.
It was the next afternoon that Billy called on Marie. From Marie's, Billy went to the Annex, which was very near Cyril's new house; and there, in Aunt Hannah's room, she had what she told Bertram afterwards was a perfectly lovely visit.
Aunt Hannah, too, enjoyed the visit very much, though yet there was one thing that disturbed her--the vaguely troubled look in Billy's eyes, which to-day was more apparent than ever. Not until just before Billy went home did something occur to give Aunt Hannah a possible clue as to what was the meaning of it. That something was a question from Billy.
``Aunt Hannah, why don't I feel like Marie did? why don't I feel like everybody does in books and stories? Marie went around with such a detached, heavenly, absorbed look in her eyes, before the twins came to her home. But I don't.
I don't find anything like that in my face, when Ilook in the glass. And I don't feel detached and absorbed and heavenly. I'm happy, of course;but I can't help thinking of the dear, dear times Bertram and I have together, just we two, and Ican't seem to imagine it at all with a third person around.''
``Billy! _Third person_, indeed!''
``There! I knew 'twould shock you,'' mourned Billy. It shocks me. I _want_ to feel detached and heavenly and absorbed.''
``But Billy, dear, think of it--calling your own baby a third person!''
Billy sighed despairingly.
``Yes, I know. And I suppose I might as well own up to the rest of it too. I--I'm actually afraid of babies, Aunt Hannah! Well, I am,'' she reiterated, in answer to Aunt Hannah's gasp of disapproval. ``I'm not used to them at all. I never had any little brothers and sisters, and I don't know how to treat babies. I--I'm always afraid they'll break, or something. I'm just as afraid of the twins as I can be. How Marie can handle them, and toss them about as she does, I don't see.''
``Toss them about, indeed!''
``Well, it looks that way to me,'' sighed Billy.
``Anyhow, I know I can never get to handle them like that--and that's no way to feel! And I'm ashamed of myself because I _can't_ be detached and heavenly and absorbed,'' she added, rising to go. ``Everybody always is, it seems, but just me.''
``Fiddlededee, my dear!'' scoffed Aunt Hannah, patting Billy's downcast face. ``Wait till a year from now, and we'll see about that third-person bugaboo you're worrying about. _I'm_not worrying now; so you'd better not!''
