William had dreaded most of all to tell Bertram. He was very sure that
Bertram himself cared for Billy; and it was doubly hard because in
William's own mind was a strong conviction that the younger man was
decidedly the one for her. Realizing, however, that Bertram must be
told, William chose a time for the telling when Bertram was smoking in
his den in the twilight, with his face half hidden from sight.
Bertram said little--very little, that night; but in the morning he went
straight to Billy.
Billy was shocked. She had never seen the smiling, self-reliant,
debonair Bertram like this.
"Billy, is this true?" he demanded. The dull misery in his voice told
Billy that he knew the answer before he asked the question.
"Yes, yes; but, Bertram, please--please don't take it like this!" she
implored.
"How would you have me take it?"
"Why, just--just sensibly. You know I told you that--that the other
never could be--never."
"I know YOU said so; but I--believed otherwise."
"But I told you--I did not love you--that way."
Bertram winced. He rose to his feet abruptly.
"I know you did, Billy. I'm a fool, of course, to think that I could
ever--change it. I shouldn't have come here, either, this morning. But
I--had to. Good-by!" His face, as he held out his hand, was tragic with
renunciation.
"Why, Bertram, you aren't going--now--like this!" cried the girl.
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