Miss Billie's Decision [16]
shall we do? We don't want a big man with a brown beard--here!''
Billy laughed roguishly.
``I don't know. _You_ asked him! How he will like that little blue room--Aunt Hannah!'' Billy's voice turned suddenly tragic. ``For pity's sake take out those curling tongs and hairpins, and the work-basket. I'd _never_ hear the last of it if he saw those, I know. He's just that kind!''
A half stifled groan came over the wire.
``Billy, he can't stay here.''
Billy laughed again.
``No, no, dear; he won't, I know. He says he's going to a hotel. But I had to bring him home to dinner; there was no other way, under the circumstances. He won't stay. Don't you worry. But good-by. I must go. _Remember those curling tongs!_'' And the receiver clicked sharply against the hook.
In the automobile some minutes later, Billy and Mr. M. J. Arkwright were speeding toward Corey Hill. It was during a slight pause in the conversation that Billy turned to her companion with a demure:
``I telephoned Aunt Hannah, Mr. Arkwright. I thought she ought to be--warned.''
``You are very kind. What did she say?--if I may ask.''
There was a brief moment of hesitation before Billy answered.
``She said you called yourself `Mary Jane,' and that you hadn't any business to be a big man with a brown beard.''
Arkwright laughed.
``I'm afraid I owe Aunt Hannah an apology,'' he said. He hesitated, glanced admiringly at the glowing, half-averted face near him, then went on decisively. He wore the air of a man who has set the match to his bridges. ``I signed both letters `M. J. Arkwright,' but in the first one I quoted a remark of a friend, and in that remark I was addressed as `Mary Jane.' I did not know but Aunt Hannah knew of the nickname.'' (Arkwright was speaking a little slowly now, as if weighing his words.) ``But when she answered, I saw that she did not; for, from something she said, I realized that she thought I was a real Mary Jane. For the joke of the thing I let it pass. But--if she noticed my letter carefully, she saw that I did not accept your kind invitation to give
`Mary Jane' a home.''
``Yes, we noticed that,'' nodded Billy, merrily. ``But we didn't think you meant it. You see we pictured you as a shy young thing. But, really,'' she went on with a low laugh, ``you see your coming as a masculine `Mary Jane' was particularly funny--for me; for, though perhaps you didn't know it, I came once to this very same city, wearing a pink, and was expected to be Billy, a boy. And only to-day a lady warned me that your coming might even things up. But I didn't believe it would--a Mary Jane!''
Arkwright laughed. Again he hesitated, and seemed to be weighing his words.
``Yes, I heard about that coming of yours. I might almost say--that's why I--let the mistake pass in Aunt Hannah's letter,'' he said.
Billy turned with reproachful eyes.
``Oh, how could--you? But then--it was a temptation!'' She laughed suddenly. ``What sinful joy you must have had watching me hunt for `Mary Jane.' ''
``I didn't,'' acknowledged the other, with unexpected candor. ``I felt--ashamed. And when I saw you were there alone without Aunt Hannah, I came very near not speaking at all--until I realized that that would be even worse, under the circumstances.''
``Of course it would,'' smiled Billy, brightly; ``so I don't see but I shall have to forgive you, after all. And here we are at home, Mr. Mary Jane. By the way, what did you say that `M. J.' did stand for?'' she asked, as the car came to a stop.
The man did not seem to hear; at least he did not answer. He was helping his hostess to alight. A moment later a plainly agitated Aunt Hannah --her gray shawl topped with a huge black one --opened the door of the house.
CHAPTER VII
OLD FRIENDS AND NEW
At ten minutes before six on the afternoon of Arkwright's arrival, Billy came into the living- room to welcome the three Henshaw brothers, who, as was frequently the case, were dining at Hillside.
Bertram thought Billy had never looked prettier
Billy laughed roguishly.
``I don't know. _You_ asked him! How he will like that little blue room--Aunt Hannah!'' Billy's voice turned suddenly tragic. ``For pity's sake take out those curling tongs and hairpins, and the work-basket. I'd _never_ hear the last of it if he saw those, I know. He's just that kind!''
A half stifled groan came over the wire.
``Billy, he can't stay here.''
Billy laughed again.
``No, no, dear; he won't, I know. He says he's going to a hotel. But I had to bring him home to dinner; there was no other way, under the circumstances. He won't stay. Don't you worry. But good-by. I must go. _Remember those curling tongs!_'' And the receiver clicked sharply against the hook.
In the automobile some minutes later, Billy and Mr. M. J. Arkwright were speeding toward Corey Hill. It was during a slight pause in the conversation that Billy turned to her companion with a demure:
``I telephoned Aunt Hannah, Mr. Arkwright. I thought she ought to be--warned.''
``You are very kind. What did she say?--if I may ask.''
There was a brief moment of hesitation before Billy answered.
``She said you called yourself `Mary Jane,' and that you hadn't any business to be a big man with a brown beard.''
Arkwright laughed.
``I'm afraid I owe Aunt Hannah an apology,'' he said. He hesitated, glanced admiringly at the glowing, half-averted face near him, then went on decisively. He wore the air of a man who has set the match to his bridges. ``I signed both letters `M. J. Arkwright,' but in the first one I quoted a remark of a friend, and in that remark I was addressed as `Mary Jane.' I did not know but Aunt Hannah knew of the nickname.'' (Arkwright was speaking a little slowly now, as if weighing his words.) ``But when she answered, I saw that she did not; for, from something she said, I realized that she thought I was a real Mary Jane. For the joke of the thing I let it pass. But--if she noticed my letter carefully, she saw that I did not accept your kind invitation to give
`Mary Jane' a home.''
``Yes, we noticed that,'' nodded Billy, merrily. ``But we didn't think you meant it. You see we pictured you as a shy young thing. But, really,'' she went on with a low laugh, ``you see your coming as a masculine `Mary Jane' was particularly funny--for me; for, though perhaps you didn't know it, I came once to this very same city, wearing a pink, and was expected to be Billy, a boy. And only to-day a lady warned me that your coming might even things up. But I didn't believe it would--a Mary Jane!''
Arkwright laughed. Again he hesitated, and seemed to be weighing his words.
``Yes, I heard about that coming of yours. I might almost say--that's why I--let the mistake pass in Aunt Hannah's letter,'' he said.
Billy turned with reproachful eyes.
``Oh, how could--you? But then--it was a temptation!'' She laughed suddenly. ``What sinful joy you must have had watching me hunt for `Mary Jane.' ''
``I didn't,'' acknowledged the other, with unexpected candor. ``I felt--ashamed. And when I saw you were there alone without Aunt Hannah, I came very near not speaking at all--until I realized that that would be even worse, under the circumstances.''
``Of course it would,'' smiled Billy, brightly; ``so I don't see but I shall have to forgive you, after all. And here we are at home, Mr. Mary Jane. By the way, what did you say that `M. J.' did stand for?'' she asked, as the car came to a stop.
The man did not seem to hear; at least he did not answer. He was helping his hostess to alight. A moment later a plainly agitated Aunt Hannah --her gray shawl topped with a huge black one --opened the door of the house.
CHAPTER VII
OLD FRIENDS AND NEW
At ten minutes before six on the afternoon of Arkwright's arrival, Billy came into the living- room to welcome the three Henshaw brothers, who, as was frequently the case, were dining at Hillside.
Bertram thought Billy had never looked prettier