He could
not see, in spite of Kate's words, that Billy showed unmistakable
evidence at all of being in love with his brother. The more he thought
of it, in fact, the more he dreaded the carrying out of his promise to
speak to his namesake.
What should he say, he asked himself. How could he word it? He could not
very well accost her with: "Oh, Billy, I wish you'd please hurry up and
marry Bertram, because then you'd come and live with me." Neither could
he plead Bertram's cause directly. Quite probably Bertram would prefer
to plead his own. Then, too, if Billy really was not in love with
Bertram--what then? Might not his own untimely haste in the matter
forever put an end to the chance of her caring for him?
It was, indeed, a delicate matter, and as William pondered it he wished
himself well out of it, and that Kate had not spoken. But even as
he formed the wish, William remembered with a thrill Kate's positive
assertion that a word from him would do wonders, and that now was the
time to utter it. He decided then that he would speak; that he must
speak; but that at the same time he would proceed with a caution that
would permit a hasty retreat if he saw that his words were not having
the desired effect. He would begin with a frank confession of his
grief at her leaving him, and of his longing for her return; then very
gradually, if wisdom counseled it, he would go on to speak of Bertram's
love for her, and of his own hope that she would make Bertram and all
the Strata glad by loving him in return.
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