Miss Billie's Decision [59]
not care to eat --here.'' Her scornful eyes were on one of the pieces of pie down the line--no longer a triangle.
``Of course not,'' agreed Billy, promptly. She paused, frowned, and bit her lip. Suddenly her face cleared. ``There! the very thing,'' she exulted. ``You shall have my ticket this afternoon, Miss Greggory, then you won't have to stay here another minute. Meanwhile, there is an excellent restaurant--''
``Thank you--no. I couldn't do that,'' cut in the other, sharply, but in a low voice.
``But you'll take my ticket,'' begged Billy.
Miss Greggory shook her head.
``Certainly not.''
``But I want you to, please. I shall be very unhappy if you don't,'' grieved Billy.
The other made a peremptory gesture.
``_I_ should be very unhappy if I did,'' she said with cold emphasis. ``Really, Miss Neilson,'' she went on in a low voice, throwing an apprehensive glance at the man ahead, who was apparently absorbed in his newspaper, ``I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to let me go on in my own way. You are very kind, but there is nothing you can do; nothing. You were very kind, too, of course, to send the book and the flowers to mother at Christmas; but--''
``Never mind that, please,'' interrupted Billy, hurriedly. Billy's head was lifted now. Her eyes were no longer pleading. Her round little chin looked square and determined. ``If you simply will not take my ticket this afternoon, you _must_ do this. Go to some restaurant near here and get a good luncheon--something that will sustain you. I will take your place here.''
``_Miss Neilson!_''
Billy smiled radiantly. It was the first time she had ever seen Alice Greggory's haughtily cold reserve break into anything like naturalness --the astonished incredulity of that ``Miss Neilson!'' was plainly straight from the heart; so, too, were the amazed words that followed.
``_You_--will stand _here?_''
``Certainly; I will keep your place. Don't worry. You sha'n't lose it.'' Billy spoke with a smiling indifference that was meant to convey the impression that standing in line for a twenty- five-cent seat was a daily habit of hers. ``There's a restaurant only a little way--right down there,'' she finished. And before the dazed Alice Greggory knew quite what was happening she found herself outside the line, and the other in her place.
``But, Miss Neilson, I can't--you mustn't--'' she stammered; then, because of something in the unyieldingness of the square young chin above the sealskin coat, and because she could not (she knew) use actual force to drag the owner of that chin out of the line, she bowed her head in acquiescence.
``Well, then--I will, long enough for some coffee and maybe a sandwich. And--thank you,'' she choked, as she turned and hurried away.
Billy drew the deep breath of one who has triumphed after long struggles--but the breath broke off short in a gasp of dismay: coming straight up the Avenue toward her was the one person in the world Billy wished least to see at that moment--Bertram Henshaw. Billy remembered then that she had twice lately heard her lover speak of calling at the Boston Opera House concerning a commission to paint an ideal head to represent ``Music'' for some decorative purpose. The Opera House was only a short distance up the Avenue. Doubtless he was on his way there now.
He was very near by this time, and Billy held her breath suspended. There was a chance, of course, that he might not notice her; and Billy was counting on that chance--until a gust of wind whirled a loose half-sheet of newspaper from the hands of the man in front of her, and naturally attracted Bertram's eyes to its vicinity--and to hers. The next moment he was at her side and his dumfounded but softly-breathed ``_Billy!_'' was in her ears.
Billy bubbled into low laughter--there were such a lot of funny situations in the world, and of them all this one was about the drollest, she thought.
``Yes, I know,'' she gurgled. ``You don't have to say it-your face is saying even more than your tongue _could!_ This
``Of course not,'' agreed Billy, promptly. She paused, frowned, and bit her lip. Suddenly her face cleared. ``There! the very thing,'' she exulted. ``You shall have my ticket this afternoon, Miss Greggory, then you won't have to stay here another minute. Meanwhile, there is an excellent restaurant--''
``Thank you--no. I couldn't do that,'' cut in the other, sharply, but in a low voice.
``But you'll take my ticket,'' begged Billy.
Miss Greggory shook her head.
``Certainly not.''
``But I want you to, please. I shall be very unhappy if you don't,'' grieved Billy.
The other made a peremptory gesture.
``_I_ should be very unhappy if I did,'' she said with cold emphasis. ``Really, Miss Neilson,'' she went on in a low voice, throwing an apprehensive glance at the man ahead, who was apparently absorbed in his newspaper, ``I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to let me go on in my own way. You are very kind, but there is nothing you can do; nothing. You were very kind, too, of course, to send the book and the flowers to mother at Christmas; but--''
``Never mind that, please,'' interrupted Billy, hurriedly. Billy's head was lifted now. Her eyes were no longer pleading. Her round little chin looked square and determined. ``If you simply will not take my ticket this afternoon, you _must_ do this. Go to some restaurant near here and get a good luncheon--something that will sustain you. I will take your place here.''
``_Miss Neilson!_''
Billy smiled radiantly. It was the first time she had ever seen Alice Greggory's haughtily cold reserve break into anything like naturalness --the astonished incredulity of that ``Miss Neilson!'' was plainly straight from the heart; so, too, were the amazed words that followed.
``_You_--will stand _here?_''
``Certainly; I will keep your place. Don't worry. You sha'n't lose it.'' Billy spoke with a smiling indifference that was meant to convey the impression that standing in line for a twenty- five-cent seat was a daily habit of hers. ``There's a restaurant only a little way--right down there,'' she finished. And before the dazed Alice Greggory knew quite what was happening she found herself outside the line, and the other in her place.
``But, Miss Neilson, I can't--you mustn't--'' she stammered; then, because of something in the unyieldingness of the square young chin above the sealskin coat, and because she could not (she knew) use actual force to drag the owner of that chin out of the line, she bowed her head in acquiescence.
``Well, then--I will, long enough for some coffee and maybe a sandwich. And--thank you,'' she choked, as she turned and hurried away.
Billy drew the deep breath of one who has triumphed after long struggles--but the breath broke off short in a gasp of dismay: coming straight up the Avenue toward her was the one person in the world Billy wished least to see at that moment--Bertram Henshaw. Billy remembered then that she had twice lately heard her lover speak of calling at the Boston Opera House concerning a commission to paint an ideal head to represent ``Music'' for some decorative purpose. The Opera House was only a short distance up the Avenue. Doubtless he was on his way there now.
He was very near by this time, and Billy held her breath suspended. There was a chance, of course, that he might not notice her; and Billy was counting on that chance--until a gust of wind whirled a loose half-sheet of newspaper from the hands of the man in front of her, and naturally attracted Bertram's eyes to its vicinity--and to hers. The next moment he was at her side and his dumfounded but softly-breathed ``_Billy!_'' was in her ears.
Billy bubbled into low laughter--there were such a lot of funny situations in the world, and of them all this one was about the drollest, she thought.
``Yes, I know,'' she gurgled. ``You don't have to say it-your face is saying even more than your tongue _could!_ This