Why, Pete, we mustn't
leave him. He isn't--he isn't HIMSELF, Pete. He--he's been DRINKING!"
Billy's voice broke, and her face flushed scarlet. She was almost
crying. "Come, you won't refuse now!" she finished, resolutely turning
toward the street.
And because old Pete could not pick her up bodily and carry her home,
he followed close at her heels. At the head of the marble stairs "all
lights and mirrors," however, he made one last plea.
"Miss Billy, once more I beg of ye, won't ye come home? Ye don't know
what yer a-doin', Miss Billy, ye don't--ye don't!"
"I can't go home," persisted Billy. "I must get Mr. Bertram away from
that man. Now come; we'll just stand at the door and look in until we
see him. Then I'll go straight to him and speak to him." And with that
she turned and ran down the steps.
Billy blinked a little at the lights which, reflected in the great
plate-glass mirrors, were a million dazzling points that found
themselves again repeated in the sparkling crystal and glittering silver
on the flower-decked tables. All about her Billy saw flushed-faced men,
and bright-eyed women, laughing, chatting, and clinking together their
slender-stemmed wine glasses. But nowhere, as she looked about her,
could Billy descry the man she sought.
The head waiter came forward with uplifted hand, but Billy did not see
him.
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