"
"Isn't it nice and small?" cried she. "Billy and I haven't the slightest
difficulty in finding each other--as people so often have in the big
houses." And it was Billy this and Billy that, and what Billy said and
thought and felt--and before they were married, she had called him William,
and had declared "Billy" to be the most offensive combination of letters
that ever fell from human lips.
"I needn't ask if _you_ are happy," said I presently, with a dismal
failure at looking cheerful. "I can't stay but a moment," I added, and if I
had obeyed my feelings, I'd have risen up and taken myself and my pain away
from surroundings as hateful to me as a summer sunrise in a death-chamber.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, in some confusion. "Then excuse me." And she hastened
from the room.
I thought she had gone to order, or perhaps to bring, the tea. The long
minutes dragged away until ten had passed. Hearing a rustling in the hall,
I rose, intending to take leave the instant she appeared. The rustling
stopped just outside. I waited a few seconds, cried, "Well, I'm off. Next
time I want to be alone, I'll know where to come," and advanced to the
door. It was not Alva hesitating there; it was Anita.
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