Ever since the man's departure that afternoon, Billy had been frantically trying to assure herself that she was not to blame; that she would not be supposed to know he cared for her; that it had all been as he said it was--his foolish blindness. But even when she had partially comforted herself by these assertions, she could not by any means escape the haunting vision of the man's stern-set, suffering face as she had seen it that afternoon; nor could she keep from weeping at the memory of the words he had said, and at the thought that never again could their pleasant friendship be quite the same--if, indeed, there could be any friendship at all between them. But if Billy expected that her red eyes, pale cheeks, and generally troubled appearance and unquiet manner were to be passed unnoticed by her lover's keen eyes that evening, she found herself much mistaken. “Sweetheart, what _is_ the matter?” demanded Bertram resolutely, at last, when his more indirect questions had been evasively turned aside. “You can't make me think there isn't something the trouble, because I know there is!” “Well, then, there is, dear,” smiled Billy, tearfully; “but please just don't let us talk of it. I--I want to forget it. Truly I do.” “But I want to know so _I_ can forget it,” persisted Bertram. “What is it? Maybe I could help.” She shook her head with a little frightened cry. “No, no--you can't help--really.” “But, sweetheart, you don't know. Perhaps I could. Won't you _tell_ me about it?” Billy looked distressed. “I can't, dear--truly. You see, it isn't quite mine--to tell.” “Not yours!” “Not--entirely.” “But it makes you feel bad?” “Yes--very.” “Then can't I know that part?” “Oh, no--no, indeed, no! You see--it wouldn't be fair--to the other.” Bertram stared a little. Then his mouth set into stern lines. “Billy, what are you talking about? Seems to me I have a right to know.” Billy hesitated. To her mind, a girl who would tell of the unrequited love of a man for herself, was unspeakably base. To tell Bertram Arkwright's love story was therefore impossible. Yet, in some way, she must set Bertram's mind at rest. “Dearest,” she began slowly, her eyes wistfully pleading, “just what it is, I can't tell you. In a way it's another's secret, and I don't feel that I have the right to tell it. It's just something that I learned this afternoon.” “But it has made you cry!” “Yes. It made me feel very unhappy.” “Then--it was something you couldn't help?” To Bertram's surprise, the face he was watching so intently flushed scarlet. “No, I couldn't help it--now; though I might have--once.” Billy spoke this last just above her breath. Then she went on, beseechingly: “Bertram, please, please don't talk of it any more. It--it's just spoiling our happy evening together!” Bertram bit his lip, and drew a long sigh. “All right, dear; you know best, of course--since I don't know _anything_ about it,” he finished a little stiffly.