"The fact is, Billy, I've run across a couple of old classmates on from New York, and they are very anxious I should stay down to dinner with them.

Would you mind--very much if I did ?" A cold hand seemed to clutch Billy's heart.

She caught her breath with a little gasp and tried to speak; but she had to try twice before the words came.
"Why, no--no, of course not!" Billy's voice was very high-pitched and a little shaky, but it was surpassingly cheerful.
"You sure you won't be--lonesome ?" Bertram's voice was vaguely troubled.
"Of course not!" "You've only to say the word, little girl," came Bertram's anxious tones again, "and I won't stay." Billy swallowed convulsively.

If only, only he would _stop_ and leave her to herself! As if she were going to own up that _she_ was lonesome for _him_--if _he_ was not lonesome for _her!_ "Nonsense! of course you'll stay," called Billy, still in that high-pitched, shaky treble.

Then, before Bertram could answer, she uttered a gay "Good-by!" and hung up the receiver.
Billy had ten whole minutes in which to cry before Pete's gong sounded for dinner; but she had only one minute in which to try to efface the woefully visible effects of those ten minutes before William tapped at her door, and called: "Gone to sleep, my dear?
Dinner's ready.