Miss Billie's Decision [12]
boy as he has the last week or two.''
The rose-flush on Marie's cheek spread to the roots of her fine yellow hair.
``Billy, dear, he--he didn't!''
``Marie, dear--he--he did!''
Marie laughed. She did not say anything, but the rose-flush deepened as she occupied herself very busily in getting her trunk-check from the little hand bag she carried.
Cyril was not mentioned again until the two girls, veils tied and coats buttoned, were snugly ensconced in the tonneau, and Peggy's nose was turned toward home. Then Billy asked:
``Have you settled on where you're going to live?''
``Not quite. We're going to talk of that to-night; but we _do_ know that we aren't going to live at the Strata.''
``Marie!''
Marie stirred uneasily at the obvious disappointment and reproach in her friend's voice.
``But, dear, it wouldn't be wise, I'm sure,'' she argued hastily. ``There will be you and Bertram--''
``We sha'n't be there for a year, nearly,'' cut in Billy, with swift promptness. ``Besides, I think it would be lovely--all together.''
Marie smiled, but she shook her head.
``Lovely--but not practical, dear.''
Billy laughed ruefully.
``I know; you're worrying about those puddings of yours. You're afraid somebody is going to interfere with your making quite so many as you want to; and Cyril is worrying for fear there'll be somebody else in the circle of his shaded lamp besides his little Marie with the light on her hair, and the mending basket by her side.''
``Billy, what are you talking about?''
Billy threw a roguish glance into her friend's amazed blue eyes.
``Oh, just a little picture Cyril drew once for me of what home meant for him: a room with a table and a shaded lamp, and a little woman beside it with the light on her hair and a great basket of sewing by her side.''
Marie's eyes softened.
``Did he say--that?''
``Yes. Oh, he declared he shouldn't want her to sit under that lamp all the time, of course; but he hoped she'd like that sort of thing.''
Marie threw a quick glance at the stolid back of John beyond the two empty seats in front of them. Although she knew he could not hear her words, instinctively she lowered her voice.
``Did you know--then--about--me?'' she asked, with heightened color.
``No, only that there was a girl somewhere who, he hoped, would sit under the lamp some day. And when I asked him if the girl did like that sort of thing, he said yes, he thought so; for she had told him once that the things she liked best of all to do were to mend stockings and make puddings. Then I knew, of course, 'twas you, for I'd heard you say the same thing. So I sent him right along out to you in the summer- house.''
The pink flush on Marie's face grew to a red one. Her blue eyes turned again to John's broad back, then drifted to the long, imposing line of windowed walls and doorways on the right. The automobile was passing smoothly along Beacon Street now with the Public Garden just behind them on the left. After a moment Marie turned to Billy again.
``I'm so glad he wants--just puddings and stockings,'' she began a little breathlessly. ``You see, for so long I supposed he _wouldn't_ want anything but a very brilliant, talented wife who could play and sing beautifully; a wife he'd be proud of--like you.''
``Me? Nonsense!'' laughed Billy. ``Cyril never wanted me, and I never wanted him--only once for a few minutes, so to speak, when I thought, I did. In spite of our music, we aren't a mite congenial. I like people around; he doesn't. I like to go to plays; he doesn't. He likes rainy days, and I abhor them. Mercy! Life with me for him would be one long jangling discord, my love, while with you it'll be one long sweet song!''
Marie drew a deep breath. Her eyes were fixed on a point far ahead up the curveless street.
``I hope it will, indeed!'' she breathed.
Not until they were almost home did Billy say suddenly:
``Oh, did Cyril write you? A young relative of Aunt Hannah's is coming to-morrow to stay a while at the house.''
The rose-flush on Marie's cheek spread to the roots of her fine yellow hair.
``Billy, dear, he--he didn't!''
``Marie, dear--he--he did!''
Marie laughed. She did not say anything, but the rose-flush deepened as she occupied herself very busily in getting her trunk-check from the little hand bag she carried.
Cyril was not mentioned again until the two girls, veils tied and coats buttoned, were snugly ensconced in the tonneau, and Peggy's nose was turned toward home. Then Billy asked:
``Have you settled on where you're going to live?''
``Not quite. We're going to talk of that to-night; but we _do_ know that we aren't going to live at the Strata.''
``Marie!''
Marie stirred uneasily at the obvious disappointment and reproach in her friend's voice.
``But, dear, it wouldn't be wise, I'm sure,'' she argued hastily. ``There will be you and Bertram--''
``We sha'n't be there for a year, nearly,'' cut in Billy, with swift promptness. ``Besides, I think it would be lovely--all together.''
Marie smiled, but she shook her head.
``Lovely--but not practical, dear.''
Billy laughed ruefully.
``I know; you're worrying about those puddings of yours. You're afraid somebody is going to interfere with your making quite so many as you want to; and Cyril is worrying for fear there'll be somebody else in the circle of his shaded lamp besides his little Marie with the light on her hair, and the mending basket by her side.''
``Billy, what are you talking about?''
Billy threw a roguish glance into her friend's amazed blue eyes.
``Oh, just a little picture Cyril drew once for me of what home meant for him: a room with a table and a shaded lamp, and a little woman beside it with the light on her hair and a great basket of sewing by her side.''
Marie's eyes softened.
``Did he say--that?''
``Yes. Oh, he declared he shouldn't want her to sit under that lamp all the time, of course; but he hoped she'd like that sort of thing.''
Marie threw a quick glance at the stolid back of John beyond the two empty seats in front of them. Although she knew he could not hear her words, instinctively she lowered her voice.
``Did you know--then--about--me?'' she asked, with heightened color.
``No, only that there was a girl somewhere who, he hoped, would sit under the lamp some day. And when I asked him if the girl did like that sort of thing, he said yes, he thought so; for she had told him once that the things she liked best of all to do were to mend stockings and make puddings. Then I knew, of course, 'twas you, for I'd heard you say the same thing. So I sent him right along out to you in the summer- house.''
The pink flush on Marie's face grew to a red one. Her blue eyes turned again to John's broad back, then drifted to the long, imposing line of windowed walls and doorways on the right. The automobile was passing smoothly along Beacon Street now with the Public Garden just behind them on the left. After a moment Marie turned to Billy again.
``I'm so glad he wants--just puddings and stockings,'' she began a little breathlessly. ``You see, for so long I supposed he _wouldn't_ want anything but a very brilliant, talented wife who could play and sing beautifully; a wife he'd be proud of--like you.''
``Me? Nonsense!'' laughed Billy. ``Cyril never wanted me, and I never wanted him--only once for a few minutes, so to speak, when I thought, I did. In spite of our music, we aren't a mite congenial. I like people around; he doesn't. I like to go to plays; he doesn't. He likes rainy days, and I abhor them. Mercy! Life with me for him would be one long jangling discord, my love, while with you it'll be one long sweet song!''
Marie drew a deep breath. Her eyes were fixed on a point far ahead up the curveless street.
``I hope it will, indeed!'' she breathed.
Not until they were almost home did Billy say suddenly:
``Oh, did Cyril write you? A young relative of Aunt Hannah's is coming to-morrow to stay a while at the house.''