Miss Billie's Decision [60]
is just for a girl I know. I'm keeping her place.''
Bertram frowned. He looked as if he were meditating picking Billy up and walking off with her.
``But, Billy,'' he protested just above his breath, ``this isn't sugarplums nor frosting; it's plain suicide--standing out in this wind like this! Besides--'' He stopped with an angrily despairing glance at her surroundings.
``Yes, I know,'' she nodded, a little soberly, understanding the look and answering that first; ``it isn't pleasant nor comfortable, in lots of ways--but _she's_ had it all the morning. As for the cold--I'm as warm as toast. It won't be long, anyway; she's just gone to get something to eat. Then I'm going to May Henderson's for luncheon.''
Bertram sighed impatiently and opened his lips--only to close them with the words unsaid. There was nothing he could do, and he had already said too much, he thought, with a savage glance at the man ahead who still had enough of his paper left to serve for a pretence at reading. As Bertram could see, however, the man was not reading a word --he was too acutely conscious of the handsome young woman in the long sealskin coat behind him. Billy was already the cynosure of dozens of eyes, and Bertram knew that his own arrival on the scene had not lessened the interest of the owners of those eyes. He only hoped devoutly that no one in the line knew him ar Billy, and that no one quite knew what had happened. He did not wish to see himself and his fiance the subject of inch-high headlines in some evening paper figuring as:
``Talented young composer and her famous artist lover take poor girl's place in a twenty-five- cent ticket line.''
He shivered at the thought.
``Are you cold?'' worried Billy. ``If you are, don't stand here, please!''
He shook his head silently. His eyes were searching the street for the only one whose coming could bring him relief.
It must have been but a coffee-and-sandwich luncheon for the girl, for soon she came. The man surmised that it was she, as soon as he saw her, and stepped back at once. He had no wish for introductions. A moment later the girl was in Billy's place, and Billy herself was at his side.
``That was Alice Greggory, Bertram,'' she told him, as they walked on swiftly; ``and Bertram, she was actually almost _crying_ when she took my place.''
``Humph! Well, I should think she'd better be,'' growled Bertram, perversely.
``Pooh! It didn't hurt me any, dearie,'' laughed Billy with a conciliatory pat on his arm as they turned down the street upon which her friend lived. ``And now can you come in and see May a minute?''
``I'm afraid not,'' regretted Bertram. ``I wish I could, but I'm busier than busy to-day-- and I was _supposed_ to be already late when I saw you. Jove, Billy, I just couldn't believe my eyes!''
``You looked it,'' twinkled Billy. ``It was worth a farm just to see your face!''
``I'd want the farm--if I was going through that again,'' retorted the man, grimly--Bertram was still seeing that newspaper heading.
But Billy only laughed again.
CHAPTER XX
ARKWRIGHT TELLS A STORY
Arkwright called Monday afternoon by appointment; and together he and Billy put the finishing touches to the new song.
It was when, with Aunt Hannah, they were having tea before the fire a little later, that Billy told of her adventure the preceding Friday afternoon in front of Symphony Hall.
``You knew the girl, of course--I think you said you knew the girl,'' ventured Arkwright.
``Oh, yes. She was Alice Greggory. I met her with Uncle William first, over a Lowestoft teapot. Maybe you'd like to know _how_ I met her,'' smiled Billy.
``Alice Greggory?'' Arkwright's eyes showed a sudden interest. ``I used to know an Alice Greggory, but it isn't the same one, probably. Her mother was a cripple.''
Billy gave a little cry.
``Why, it is--it must be! _My_ Alice Greggory's mother is a cripple. Oh, do you know them, really?''
``Well, it does look like it,'' rejoined Arkwright, showing even deeper interest. ``I
Bertram frowned. He looked as if he were meditating picking Billy up and walking off with her.
``But, Billy,'' he protested just above his breath, ``this isn't sugarplums nor frosting; it's plain suicide--standing out in this wind like this! Besides--'' He stopped with an angrily despairing glance at her surroundings.
``Yes, I know,'' she nodded, a little soberly, understanding the look and answering that first; ``it isn't pleasant nor comfortable, in lots of ways--but _she's_ had it all the morning. As for the cold--I'm as warm as toast. It won't be long, anyway; she's just gone to get something to eat. Then I'm going to May Henderson's for luncheon.''
Bertram sighed impatiently and opened his lips--only to close them with the words unsaid. There was nothing he could do, and he had already said too much, he thought, with a savage glance at the man ahead who still had enough of his paper left to serve for a pretence at reading. As Bertram could see, however, the man was not reading a word --he was too acutely conscious of the handsome young woman in the long sealskin coat behind him. Billy was already the cynosure of dozens of eyes, and Bertram knew that his own arrival on the scene had not lessened the interest of the owners of those eyes. He only hoped devoutly that no one in the line knew him ar Billy, and that no one quite knew what had happened. He did not wish to see himself and his fianc
``Talented young composer and her famous artist lover take poor girl's place in a twenty-five- cent ticket line.''
He shivered at the thought.
``Are you cold?'' worried Billy. ``If you are, don't stand here, please!''
He shook his head silently. His eyes were searching the street for the only one whose coming could bring him relief.
It must have been but a coffee-and-sandwich luncheon for the girl, for soon she came. The man surmised that it was she, as soon as he saw her, and stepped back at once. He had no wish for introductions. A moment later the girl was in Billy's place, and Billy herself was at his side.
``That was Alice Greggory, Bertram,'' she told him, as they walked on swiftly; ``and Bertram, she was actually almost _crying_ when she took my place.''
``Humph! Well, I should think she'd better be,'' growled Bertram, perversely.
``Pooh! It didn't hurt me any, dearie,'' laughed Billy with a conciliatory pat on his arm as they turned down the street upon which her friend lived. ``And now can you come in and see May a minute?''
``I'm afraid not,'' regretted Bertram. ``I wish I could, but I'm busier than busy to-day-- and I was _supposed_ to be already late when I saw you. Jove, Billy, I just couldn't believe my eyes!''
``You looked it,'' twinkled Billy. ``It was worth a farm just to see your face!''
``I'd want the farm--if I was going through that again,'' retorted the man, grimly--Bertram was still seeing that newspaper heading.
But Billy only laughed again.
CHAPTER XX
ARKWRIGHT TELLS A STORY
Arkwright called Monday afternoon by appointment; and together he and Billy put the finishing touches to the new song.
It was when, with Aunt Hannah, they were having tea before the fire a little later, that Billy told of her adventure the preceding Friday afternoon in front of Symphony Hall.
``You knew the girl, of course--I think you said you knew the girl,'' ventured Arkwright.
``Oh, yes. She was Alice Greggory. I met her with Uncle William first, over a Lowestoft teapot. Maybe you'd like to know _how_ I met her,'' smiled Billy.
``Alice Greggory?'' Arkwright's eyes showed a sudden interest. ``I used to know an Alice Greggory, but it isn't the same one, probably. Her mother was a cripple.''
Billy gave a little cry.
``Why, it is--it must be! _My_ Alice Greggory's mother is a cripple. Oh, do you know them, really?''
``Well, it does look like it,'' rejoined Arkwright, showing even deeper interest. ``I