Even then he thought he could not have heard aright.
"Er--you said--" he questioned faintly.
"I say when I'm your wife I hope I'll learn to be more self-controlled,"
laughed Billy, nervously. "You see I just thought I ought to remind you
that I am young, and that you'll have to be patient."
William stammered something--a hurried something; he wondered afterward
what it was. That it must have been satisfactory to Billy was evident,
for she began laughingly to talk again. What she said, William scarcely
knew, though he was conscious of making an occasional vague reply. He
was still floundering in a hopeless sea of confusion and dismay. His own
desire was to get up and say good night at once. He wanted to be alone
to think. He realized, however, with sickening force, that men do not
propose and run away--if they are accepted. And he was accepted; he
realized that, too, overwhelmingly. Then he tried to think how it had
happened, what he had said; how she could so have misunderstood his
meaning. This line of thought he abandoned quickly, however; it could do
no good. But what could do good, he asked himself. What could he do?
With blinding force came the answer: he could do nothing. Billy cared
for him. Billy had said "yes." Billy expected to be his wife. As if he
could say to her now: "I beg your pardon, but 'twas all a mistake.
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