He was surprised and annoyed. Never before had he been at a loss for
words--mere words. And it was not that he lacked opportunity. He
walked, drove, and talked with Billy, and always she was companionable,
attentive to what he had to say. Never was she cold or reserved. Never
did she fail to greet him with a cheery smile.
Bertram concluded, indeed, after a time, that she was too companionable,
too cheery. He wished she would hesitate, stammer, blush; be a
little shy. He wished that she would display surprise, annoyance,
even--anything but that eternal air of comradeship. And then, one
afternoon in the early twilight of a January day, he freed his mind,
quite unexpectedly.
"Billy, I wish you WOULDN'T be so--so friendly!" he exclaimed in a voice
that was almost sharp.
Billy laughed at first, but the next moment a shamed distress drove the
merriment quite out of her face.
"You mean that I presume on--on our friendship?" she stammered. "That
you fear that I will again--shadow your footsteps?" It was the first
time since the memorable night itself that Billy had ever in Bertram's
presence referred to her young guardianship of his welfare. She realized
now, suddenly, that she had just been giving the man before her some
very "sisterly advice," and the thought sent a confused red to her
cheeks.
Bertram turned quickly.
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