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Since Thanksgiving Bertram had known that it was love--this consuming
fire within him; and since Thanksgiving he had known, too, that it
was jealousy--this fierce hatred of Calderwell. He was ashamed of the
hatred. He told himself that it was unmanly, unkind, and unreasonable;
and he vowed that he would overcome it. At times he even fancied that
he had overcome it; but always the sight of Calderwell in Billy's little
drawing-room or of even the man's card on Billy's silver tray was enough
to show him that he had not.
There were others, too, who annoyed Bertram not a little, foremost of
these being his own brothers. Still he was not really worried about
William and Cyril, he told himself. William he did not consider to be a
marrying man; and Cyril--every one knew that Cyril was a woman-hater.
He was doubtless attracted now only by Billy's music. There was no
real rivalry to be feared from William and Cyril. But there was always
Calderwell, and Calderwell was serious. Bertram decided, therefore,
after some weeks of feverish unrest, that the only road to peace lay
through a frank avowal of his feelings, and a direct appeal to Billy to
give him the great boon of her love.
Just here, however, Bertram met with an unexpected difficulty. He could
not find words with which to make his avowal or to present his appeal.
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