“You’re a silly goose,” declared Cecily.
“We could go to Larchmont, for instance,” continued Billy, ignoring the compliment, “and pick some goldenrod and stuff.”
“Goldenrod! In April!”
“Why not, in April?” demanded Billy.
Cecily laughed. “You are very ignorant,” said she, pityingly.
“You are trying to make me vain,” Billy asserted. “First, silly goose; second, ignoramus. I can’t possibly live up to it. Besides, I didn’t mean goldenrod, really. I was merely referring to your hair.”
Cecily greeted this assertion with contemptuous silence.
“How soon are we going?” asked Billy, presently.
Cecily gasped at his impudence.
“I shall never forget,” continued Billy, “that wonderful evening at Argenteuil, the cool garden, the — everything. And how surprised I was when you called me ‘Billy’ without my even suggesting it! And on the way back to Paris you... your—”
“Please stop,” Cecily implored.
“Well,” said Billy, magnanimously, “we’ll forget that. Beside, the night was cold. But on Monday afternoon you broke two engagements to visit the quarter with me. On Tuesday evening at the Opera Comique you admitted that I was more interesting than the play. On Wednesday afternoon at the Louvre when Lord Hailes insisted on carrying your scarf you handed it to me. On Thursday evening you put three lumps of sugar in my coffee without tongs. On Friday morning, in a retired spot in the Luxembourg Gardens, while your mother had gone ahead to feed the swans, you put—”
“Stop!” commanded Cecily, her hands to her ears.
“Well?” demanded Billy, sternly.
“I hate you,” declared Cecily. “We shall start at once. The sooner it’s over the better.”
“Do we pick goldenrod for your mother?”
“Yes.”
“And go for a sail on the Sound?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Then I forgive you,” said Billy, generously. “I have decided,” said Billy, as the touring car sped up Seventh Avenue, “to tell you my reason for not going to the train.”
“It’s of no importance,” said Cecily.
“At that time,” continued Billy, ignoring the remark, “I was living on a monthly allowance from my father. When I met you the month had nearly ended. That last dinner at the Sigognac was contributed to by no less than fourteen of my devoted friends. I was, in short, completely strapped.”
“You could have walked,” said Cecily, trying not to smile.
“Certainly,” agreed Billy, “and I did. I am shameless enough to admit that I watched you board the train from behind the friendly shelter of a protecting post. But nothing less than the most beautiful flowers in Paris would have suited you, and that was — impracticable.”
There was a short silence.
“I had the bouquet made up,” said Billy, reminiscently, “by Vidalinc of the Haussamn. It was most gorgeous. My friends admired it immensely. It was wonderful.”
“But I thought you — I thought it was impracticable,” said Cecily.
“So it was,” agreed Billy. “But I wanted to see how it looked. I had thought the thing out so carefully, and I wanted to see if it met my expectations. Vidalinc was most accommodating. Only, of course, I had to—”
“Do you mean to say,” Cecily interrupted, “that you had that bouquet made up without intending to buy it?”
“Why not?” asked Billy. “It was for you. I would do anything for you.”
Cecily laughed. It was a silvery, musical laugh.
“Billy—,” said she, and stopped short.
“There!” said Billy, sternly. “You’re at it again. You know what that does to me.”
“I am sorry,” said Cecily, with averted face. It was positively red. “Mr. Du Mont,” she added.
“It’s too late,” said Billy, gloomily. “I love you.”
“Mr. Du Mont!” exclaimed Cecily, as severely as possible.
“I couldn’t help it,” declared Billy, “but I’ll try.”
Silence.
“Not to say it?”
“Not to love you.”
“Oh!” said Cecily. “You — you probably won’t find it difficult.”
“Probably not,” agreed Billy, almost cheerfully.
Cecily should have been gratified by this sincere effort to obey her wishes, but she wasn’t. She looked out across the swamps toward the Sound without seeing them, and then turned and glanced at Billy curiously. His lips were puckered into a round and unmistakable O.
“Oh!” cried Cecily.
“Well?” demanded Billy, surprised.
“You were going to whistle,” said Cecily, accusingly.
“Yes. ‘Love Is a Jolly Good Fellow.’ Have you heard it?”
“I hate you!” declared Cecily.
“Thank you. I was afraid you pitied me.”
“Not I,” scornfully.
“May I whistle?”
No answer. Billy hesitated for a moment, then began to whistle a lilting, catchy tune that sailed out over the fields and seemed to arouse even the sleepy violets tucked away in their modest beds. They had just passed New Rochelle, and the car had left its rough brick pavements for the long stretch of smooth, oily road that leads to Larchmont. Cottages and bungalows appeared at either side of the road at frequent intervals. To the right lay low meadows, reaching to the Sound; to the left and north, miniature hills and undulations that gave only an enticing hint of Mother Earth’s great breasts. Over all lay spring’s fragrant mantle, alluring, transparent, a continual reminder of the blazing passion of the summer to come.
As Billy whistled tune after tune, seemingly unconscious of all the world save his own agreeable self, Cecily was far from comfortable. There was every reason in the world why Billy should be sad, even sullen; instead, witness his heartless mirth. She turned away in vexation.
Billy, having completed his repertoire of happy tunes, and disdaining the mournful ones, turned to her with the air of one about to divulge an important secret.
“I forgot to tell you,” said he, “that I have become a journalist.”
Cecily gazed at a bungalow they were passing, with deep interest.
“I am beginning at the bottom,” continued Billy, “as a reporter. I began work this morning.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’re working too hard?” Cecily asked, sweetly.
Billy shifted himself a little to a more comfortable position.
“Well,” he said, thoughtfully, “to tell the truth, no. I think hard work is good for a fellow. This morning, for instance, I have been successful where any other man on the paper would have failed.”
A pause.
“Would you care to hear about it?” Billy asked.
“No,” said Cecily, shortly.
“It was this way,” continued Billy; “the papers have all printed reports that the Count de Luni has won the heart of a certain Miss Lyndon, and Allen — that’s our city editor — wanted the rumor confirmed or denied.”
Cecily caught her breath with indignation, and her eyes flashed dangerously.
“Am I being interviewed?” she demanded.
“No. The interview is ended.”
“Then we may return, I suppose?”
“As you please.”
“But I... but you—” Cecily hesitated.
“That’s the same as ‘but we,’” explained Billy, kindly. “But we what?”
“Oh!” cried Cecily. “How I hate you!”
“That’s three times you’ve told me that,” said Billy, “and it’s getting monotonous. Once more, and I’ll believe it. Besides, I am not hateful. If you don’t believe me, ask Cecile — a most charming girl who admired me.”
Cecily smiled contemptuously.
“Who admired me,” repeated Billy, with emphasis. “She admitted it. It would do you good to know her. She is the dearest and sweetest girl in the world. Perhaps she didn’t love me, but once in the Gardens she told me that she would never—”