Billy was really seriously disturbed. She had never quite forgiven herself for being so blind to Arkwright's feeling for herself during those days when he had not known of her engagement to Bertram. She had never forgotten, either, the painful scene when he had hopefully told of his love, only to be met with her own shocked repudiation. For long weeks after that, his face had haunted her. She had wished, oh, so ardently, that she could do something in some way to bring him happiness. When, therefore, it had come to her knowledge afterward that he was frequently with his old friend, Alice Greggory, she had been so glad. It was very easy then to fan hope into conviction that here, in this old friend, he had found sweet balm for his wounded heart; and she determined at once to do all that she could do to help. So very glowing, indeed, was her eagerness in the matter, that it looked suspiciously as if she thought, could she but bring this thing about, that old scores against herself would be erased.
Billy told herself, virtuously, however, that not only for Arkwright did she desire this marriage to take place, but for Alice Greggory. In the very nature of things Alice would one day be left alone. She was poor, and not very strong.
She sorely needed the shielding love and care of a good husband. What more natural than that her old-time friend and almost-sweetheart, M. J.
Arkwright, should be that good husband?
That really it was more Arkwright and less Alice that was being considered, however, was proved when the devotion of Calderwell began to be first suspected, then known for a fact. Billy's distress at this turn of affairs indicated very plainly that it was not just a husband, but a certain one particular husband that she desired for Alice Greggory. All the more disturbed was she, therefore, when to-day, seeing her three friends together again for the first time for some weeks, she discovered increased evidence that her worst fears were to be realized. It was to be Alice and Calderwell, not Alice and Arkwright.
Arkwright was again to be disappointed in his dearest hopes.
Telling herself indignantly that it could not be, it _should_ not be, Billy determined to remain after the men had gone, and speak to Alice. Just what she would say she did not know. Even what she could say, she was not sure. But certainly there must be something, some little thing that she could say, which would open Alice's eyes to what she was doing, and what she ought to do.
It was in this frame of mind, therefore, that Billy, after Arkwright and Calderwell had gone, spoke to Alice. She began warily, with assumed nonchalance.
``I believe Mr. Arkwright sings better every time I hear him.''
There was no answer. Alice was sorting music at the piano.
``Don't you think so?'' Billy raised her voice a little.
Alice turned almost with a start.
``What's that? Oh, yes. Well, I don't know;maybe I do.''
``You would--if you didn't hear him any oftener than I do,'' laughed Billy. ``But then, of course you do hear him oftener.''
``I? Oh, no, indeed. Not so very much oftener.'' Alice had turned back to her music.
There was a slight embarrassment in her manner.
``I wonder--where--that new song--is,'' she murmured.
Billy, who knew very well where the song lay, was not to be diverted.
``Nonsense! As if Mr. Arkwright wasn't always telling how Alice liked this song, and didn't like that one, and thought the other the best yet!
I don't believe he sings a thing that he doesn't first sing to you. For that matter, I fancy he asks your opinion of everything, anyway.''
``Why, Billy, he doesn't!'' exclaimed Alice, a deep red flaming into her cheeks. ``You know he doesn't.''
Billy laughed gleefully. She had not been slow to note the color in her friend's face, or to ascribe to it the one meaning she wished to ascribe to it.
