"Hm-m," murmured Billy, archly. "Oh, I'm getting on some! He did show,
once, that he cared; but you thought it was another girl, and you
coldly looked the other way. Now, there ISN'T any other girl, you find,
and--Marie, tell me the rest!"
Marie shook her head emphatically, and pulled herself gently away from
Billy's grasp.
"No, no, please!" she begged. "It really isn't anything. I'm sure I'm
imagining it all!" she cried, as she ran away.
During the days that followed, Billy speculated not a little on Marie's
half-told story, and wondered interestedly who the man might be. She
questioned Marie once again, but the girl would tell nothing more; and,
indeed, Billy was so occupied with her own perplexities that she had
little time for those of other people.
To herself Billy was forced to own that she was not "getting used to
things." She was still self-conscious with William; she could not forget
that she was one day to be his wife. She could not bring back the dear
old freedom of comradeship with him.
Billy was alarmed now. She had begun to ask herself searching questions.
What should she do if never, never should she get used to the idea
of marrying William? How could she marry him if he was still "Uncle
William," and never her dear lover in her eyes? Why had she not been
wise enough and brave enough to tell him in the first place that she
was not at all sure that she loved him, but that she would try to do so?
Then when she had tried--as she had now--and failed, she could have told
him honestly the truth, and it would not have been so great a shock to
him as it must be now, if she should tell him.
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