THE BIG BAD QUARREL
It was a brilliant dinner--because Billy made it so. At first William met her sallies of wit with mild surprise; but it was not long before he rose gallantly to the occasion, and gave back full measure of retort. Even Pete twice had to turn his back to hide a smile, and once his hand shook so that the tea he was carrying almost spilled.
This threatened catastrophe, however, seemed to frighten him so much that his face was very grave throughout the rest of the dinner.
Still laughing and talking gayly, Billy and Uncle William, after the meal was over, ascended to the drawing-room. There, however, the man, in spite of the young woman's gay badinage, fell to dozing in the big chair before the fire, leaving Billy with only Spunkie for company--Spunkie, who, disdaining every effort to entice her into a romp, only winked and blinked stupid eyes, and finally curled herself on the rug for a nap.
Billy, left to her own devices, glanced at her watch.
Half-past seven! Time, almost, for Bertram to be coming. He had said ``dinner''; and, of course, after dinner was over he would be coming home--to her. Very well; she would show him that she had at least got along without him as well as he had without her. At all events he would not find her forlornly sitting with her nose pressed against the window-pane! And forthwith Billy established herself in a big chair (with its back carefully turned toward the door by which Bertram would enter), and opened a book.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. Billy fidgeted in her chair, twisted her neck to look out into the hall--and dropped her book with a bang.
Uncle William jerked himself awake, and Spunkie opened sleepy eyes. Then both settled themselves for another nap. Billy sighed, picked up her book, and flounced back into her chair.
But she did not read. Disconsolately she sat staring straight ahead--until a quick step on the sidewalk outside stirred her into instant action.
Assuming a look of absorbed interest she twitched the book open and held it before her face. . . .
But the step passed by the door: and Billy saw then that her book was upside down.
Five, ten, fifteen more minutes passed. Billy still sat, apparently reading, though she had not turned a page. The book now, however, was right side up. One by one other minutes passed till the great clock in the hall struck nine long strokes.
``Well, well, bless my soul!'' mumbled Uncle William, resolutely forcing himself to wake up.
``What time was that?''
``Nine o'clock.'' Billy spoke with tragic distinctness, yet very cheerfully.
``Eh? Only nine?'' blinked Uncle William.
``I thought it must be ten. Well, anyhow, Ibelieve I'll go up-stairs. I seem to be unusually sleepy.''
Billy said nothing. `` `Only nine,' indeed!''
she was thinking wrathfully.
At the door Uncle William turned.
``You're not going to sit up, my dear, of course,'' he remarked.
For the second time that evening a cold hand seemed to clutch Billy's heart.
_Sit up!_ Had it come already to that? Was she even now a wife who had need to _sit up_ for her husband?
``I really wouldn't, my dear,'' advised Uncle William again. ``Good night.''
``Oh, but I'm not sleepy at all, yet,'' Billy managed to declare brightly. ``Good night.''
Then Uncle William went up-stairs.
Billy turned to her book, which happened to be one of William's on ``Fake Antiques.''
`` `To collect anything, these days, requires expert knowledge, and the utmost care and discrimination,' '' read Billy's eyes. ``So Uncle William _expected_ Bertram was going to spend the whole evening as well as stay to dinner!'' ran Billy's thoughts. `` `The enormous quantity of bijouterie, Dresden and Battersea enamel ware that is now flooding the market, is made on the Continent--and made chiefly for the American trade,' '' continued the book.
``Well, who cares if it is,'' snapped Billy, springing to her feet and tossing the volume aside.
``Spunkie, come here! You've simply got to play with me. Do you hear? I want to be gay --_gay_--GAY! He's gay. He's down there with those men, where he wants to be. Where he'd _rather_ be than be with me! Do you think I want him to come home and find me moping over a stupid old book? Not much! I'm going to have him find me gay, too. Now, come, Spunkie;hurry--wake up! He'll be here right away, I'm sure.'' And Billy shook a pair of worsted reins, hung with little soft balls, full in Spunkie's face.
But Spunkie would not wake up, and Spunkie would not play. She pretended to. She bit at the reins, and sank her sharp claws into the dangling balls. For a fleeting instant, even, something like mischief gleamed in her big yellow eyes.
Then the jaws relaxed, the paws turned to velvet, and Spunkie's sleek gray head settled slowly back into lazy comfort. Spunkie was asleep.
Billy gazed at the cat with reproachful eyes.
``And you, too, Spunkie,'' she murmured.
Then she got to her feet and went back to her chair. This time she picked up a magazine and began to turn the leaves very fast, one after another.
Half-past nine came, then ten. Pete appeared at the door to get Spunkie, and to see that everything was all right for the night.
``Mr. Bertram is not in yet?'' he began doubtfully.
Billy shook her head with a bright smile.
``No, Pete. Go to bed. I expect him every minute. Good night.''
``Thank you, ma'am. Good night.''
The old man picked up the sleepy cat and went down-stairs. A little later Billy heard his quiet steps coming back through the hall and ascending the stairs. She listened until from away at the top of the house she heard his door close. Then she drew a long breath.
Ten o'clock--after ten o'clock, and Bertram not there yet! And was this what he called dinner?
Did one eat, then, till ten o'clock, when one dined with one's friends?
