Billy was angry now--very angry. She was too angry to be reasonable. This thing that her husband had done seemed monstrous to her, smarting, as she was, under the sting of hurt pride and grieved loneliness--the state of mind into which she had worked herself. No longer now did she wish to be gay when her husband came. No longer did she even pretend to assume indifference. Bertram had done wrong. He had been unkind, cruel, thoughtless, inconsiderate of her comfort and happiness. Furthermore he _did not_ love her as well as she did him or he never, never could have done it! She would let him see, when he came, just how hurt and grieved she was --and how disappointed, too.
Billy was walking the floor now, back and forth, back and forth.
Half-past ten came, then eleven. As the eleven long strokes reverberated through the silent house Billy drew in her breath and held it suspended.
A new look came to her eyes. A growing terror crept into them and culminated in a frightened stare at the clock.
Billy ran then to the great outer door and pulled it open. A cold wind stung her face, and caused her to shut the door quickly. Back and forth she began to pace the floor again; but in five minutes she had run to the door once more. This time she wore a heavy coat of Bertram's which she caught up as she passed the hall-rack.
Out on to the broad top step Billy hurried, and peered down the street. As far as she could see not a person was in sight. Across the street in the Public Garden the wind stirred the gray tree-branches and set them to casting weird shadows on the bare, frozen ground. A warning something behind her sent Billy scurrying into the house just in time to prevent the heavy door's closing and shutting her out, keyless, in the cold.
Half-past eleven came, and again Billy ran to the door. This time she put the floor-mat against the casing so that the door could not close. Once more she peered wildly up and down the street, and across into the deserted, wind-swept Garden.
There was only terror now in Billy's face. The anger was all gone. In Billy's mind there was not a shadow of doubt--something had happened to Bertram.
Bertram was ill--hurt--dead! And he was so good, so kind, so noble; such a dear, dear husband! If only she could see him once. If only she could ask his forgiveness for those wicked, unkind, accusing thoughts. If only she could tell him again that she did love him. If only--Far down the street a step rang sharply on the frosty air. A masculine figure was hurrying toward the house. Retreating well into the shadow of the doorway, Billy watched it, her heart pounding against her side in great suffocating throbs.
Nearer and nearer strode the approaching figure until Billy had almost sprung to meet it with a glad cry--almost, but not quite; for the figure neither turned nor paused, but marched straight on--and Billy saw then, under the arc light, a brown-bearded man who was not Bertram at all.
Three times during the next few minutes did the waiting little bride on the doorstep watch with palpitating yearning a shadowy form appear, approach--and pass by. At the third heart-breaking disappointment, Billy wrung her hands helplessly.
``I don't see how there can be--so many--utterly _useless_ people in the world!'' she choked.
Then, thoroughly chilled and sick at heart, she went into the house and closed the door.
