You love me.

Not the tilt of my chin, nor the turn of my head; but _me_." "I do--just you." Bertram's eyes gave the caress his lips would have given had it not been for the presence of the man in the seat across the aisle of the sleeping-car.
"And you--you know now that I love you--just you ?" "Not even Arkwright ?" "Not even Arkwright," smiled Billy.
There was the briefest of hesitations; then, a little constrainedly, Bertram asked: "And you said you--you never _had_ cared for Arkwright, didn't you ?" For the second time in her life Billy was thankful that Bertram's question had turned upon _her_ love for Arkwright, not Arkwright's love for her.

In Billy's opinion, a man's unrequited love for a girl was his secret, not hers, and was certainly one that the girl had no right to tell.

Once before Bertram had asked her if she had ever cared for Arkwright, and then she had answered emphatically, as she did now: "Never, dear." "I thought you said so," murmured Bertram, relaxing a little.
"I did; besides, didn't I tell you ?" she went on airily, "I think he'll marry Alice Greggory.

Alice wrote me all the time I was away, and--oh, she didn't say anything definite, I'll admit," confessed Billy, with an arch smile; "but she spoke of his being there lots, and they used to know each other years ago, you see.