Miss Billie's Decision [52]
he hesitated, however, Billy sprang forward.
``Mrs. Greggory, please, won't you let _me_ buy the teapot? And then--won't you keep it for me--here? I haven't the hundred dollars with me, but I'll send it right away. You will let me do it, won't you?''
It was an impulsive speech, and a foolish one, of course, from the standpoint of sense and logic and reasonableness; but it was one that might be expected, perhaps, from Billy.
Mrs. Greggory must have divined, in a way, the spirit that prompted it, for her eyes grew wet, and with a choking ``Dear child!'' she reached out and caught Billy's hand in both her own-- even while she shook her head in denial.
Not so her daughter. Alice Greggory flushed scarlet. She drew herself proudly erect.
``Thank you,'' she said with crisp coldness; ``but, distasteful as darns and patches are to us, we prefer them, infinitely, to--charity!''
``Oh, but, please, I didn't mean--you didn't understand,'' faltered Billy.
For answer Alice Greggory walked deliberately to the door and held it open.
``Oh, Alice, my dear,'' pleaded Mrs. Greggory again, feebly.
``Come, Billy! We'll bid you good morning, ladies,'' said William Henshaw then, decisively. And Billy, with a little wistful pat on Mrs. Greggory's clasped hands, went.
Once down the long four flights of stairs and out on the sidewalk, William Henshaw drew a long breath.
``Well, by Jove! Billy, the next time I take you curio hunting, it won't be to this place,'' he fumed.
``Wasn't it awful!'' choked Billy.
``Awful! The girl was the most stubborn, unreasonable, vixenish little puss I ever saw. I didn't want her old Lowestoft if she didn't want to sell it! But to practically invite me there, and then treat me like that!'' scolded the collector, his face growing red with anger. ``Still, I was sorry for the poor little old lady. I wish, somehow, she could have that hundred dollars!'' It was the man who said this, not the collector.
``So do I,'' rejoined Billy, dolefully. ``But that girl was so--so queer!'' she sighed, with a frown. Billy was puzzled. For the first time, perhaps, in her life, she knew what it was to have her proffered ``ice cream'' disdainfully refused.
CHAPTER XVII
ONLY A LOVE SONG, BUT--
Kate and little Kate left for the West on the afternoon of the fifteenth, and Bertram arrived from New York that evening. Notwithstanding the confusion of all this, Billy still had time to give some thought to her experience of the morning with Uncle William. The forlorn little room with its poverty-stricken furnishings and its crippled mistress was very vivid in Billy's memory. Equally vivid were the flashing eyes of Alice Greggory as she had opened the door at the last.
``For,'' as Billy explained to Bertram that evening, after she had told him the story of the morning's adventure, ``you see, dear, I had never been really _turned out_ of a house before!''
``I should think not,'' scowled her lover, indignantly; ``and it's safe to say you never will again. The impertinence of it! But then, you won't see them any more, sweetheart, so we'll just forget it.''
``Forget it! Why, Bertram, I couldn't! You couldn't, if you'd been there. Besides, of course I shall see them again!''
Bertram's jaw dropped.
``Why, Billy, you don't mean that Will, or you either, would try again for that trumpery teapot!''
``Of course not,'' flashed Billy, heatedly. ``It isn't the teapot--it's that dear little Mrs. Greggory. Why, dearie, you don't know how poor they are! Everything in sight is so old and thin and worn it's enough to break your heart. The rug isn't anything but darns, nor the tablecloth, either--except patches. It's awful, Bertram!''
``I know, darling; but _you_ don't expect to buy them new rugs and new tablecloths, do you?''
Billy gave one of her unexpected laughs.
``Mercy!'' she chuckled. ``Only picture Miss Alice's face if I _should_ try to buy them rugs and tablecloths! No, dear,'' she went on more seriously, ``I sha'n't do that, of course--though I'd
``Mrs. Greggory, please, won't you let _me_ buy the teapot? And then--won't you keep it for me--here? I haven't the hundred dollars with me, but I'll send it right away. You will let me do it, won't you?''
It was an impulsive speech, and a foolish one, of course, from the standpoint of sense and logic and reasonableness; but it was one that might be expected, perhaps, from Billy.
Mrs. Greggory must have divined, in a way, the spirit that prompted it, for her eyes grew wet, and with a choking ``Dear child!'' she reached out and caught Billy's hand in both her own-- even while she shook her head in denial.
Not so her daughter. Alice Greggory flushed scarlet. She drew herself proudly erect.
``Thank you,'' she said with crisp coldness; ``but, distasteful as darns and patches are to us, we prefer them, infinitely, to--charity!''
``Oh, but, please, I didn't mean--you didn't understand,'' faltered Billy.
For answer Alice Greggory walked deliberately to the door and held it open.
``Oh, Alice, my dear,'' pleaded Mrs. Greggory again, feebly.
``Come, Billy! We'll bid you good morning, ladies,'' said William Henshaw then, decisively. And Billy, with a little wistful pat on Mrs. Greggory's clasped hands, went.
Once down the long four flights of stairs and out on the sidewalk, William Henshaw drew a long breath.
``Well, by Jove! Billy, the next time I take you curio hunting, it won't be to this place,'' he fumed.
``Wasn't it awful!'' choked Billy.
``Awful! The girl was the most stubborn, unreasonable, vixenish little puss I ever saw. I didn't want her old Lowestoft if she didn't want to sell it! But to practically invite me there, and then treat me like that!'' scolded the collector, his face growing red with anger. ``Still, I was sorry for the poor little old lady. I wish, somehow, she could have that hundred dollars!'' It was the man who said this, not the collector.
``So do I,'' rejoined Billy, dolefully. ``But that girl was so--so queer!'' she sighed, with a frown. Billy was puzzled. For the first time, perhaps, in her life, she knew what it was to have her proffered ``ice cream'' disdainfully refused.
CHAPTER XVII
ONLY A LOVE SONG, BUT--
Kate and little Kate left for the West on the afternoon of the fifteenth, and Bertram arrived from New York that evening. Notwithstanding the confusion of all this, Billy still had time to give some thought to her experience of the morning with Uncle William. The forlorn little room with its poverty-stricken furnishings and its crippled mistress was very vivid in Billy's memory. Equally vivid were the flashing eyes of Alice Greggory as she had opened the door at the last.
``For,'' as Billy explained to Bertram that evening, after she had told him the story of the morning's adventure, ``you see, dear, I had never been really _turned out_ of a house before!''
``I should think not,'' scowled her lover, indignantly; ``and it's safe to say you never will again. The impertinence of it! But then, you won't see them any more, sweetheart, so we'll just forget it.''
``Forget it! Why, Bertram, I couldn't! You couldn't, if you'd been there. Besides, of course I shall see them again!''
Bertram's jaw dropped.
``Why, Billy, you don't mean that Will, or you either, would try again for that trumpery teapot!''
``Of course not,'' flashed Billy, heatedly. ``It isn't the teapot--it's that dear little Mrs. Greggory. Why, dearie, you don't know how poor they are! Everything in sight is so old and thin and worn it's enough to break your heart. The rug isn't anything but darns, nor the tablecloth, either--except patches. It's awful, Bertram!''
``I know, darling; but _you_ don't expect to buy them new rugs and new tablecloths, do you?''
Billy gave one of her unexpected laughs.
``Mercy!'' she chuckled. ``Only picture Miss Alice's face if I _should_ try to buy them rugs and tablecloths! No, dear,'' she went on more seriously, ``I sha'n't do that, of course--though I'd