``Oh, I like it--that is, I did, when it was new,'' rejoined her husband, with apologetic frankness. ``But, dear, didn't you have anything else? This looks almost--well, mussy, you know.''
``No--well, yes, maybe there were others,''
admitted Billy; ``but this was the quickest and easiest to get into, and it all came just as I was getting Baby ready for bed, you know. I am a fright, though, I'll acknowledge, so far as clothes go. I haven't had time to get a thing since Baby came. I must get something right away, I suppose.''
``Yes, indeed,'' declared Bertram, with emphasis, hurrying his wife into the waiting automobile.
Billy had to apologize again at the theater, for the curtain had already risen on the ancient quarrel between the houses of Capulet and Montague, and Billy knew her husband's special abhorrence of tardy arrivals. Later, though, when well established in their seats, Billy's mind was plainly not with the players on the stage.
``Do you suppose Baby _is_ all right?'' she whispered, after a time.
``Sh-h! Of course he is, dear!''
There was a brief silence, during which Billy peered at her program in the semi-darkness.
Then she nudged her husband's arm ecstatically.
``Bertram, I couldn't have chosen a better play if I'd tried. There are _five_ acts! I'd forgotten there were so many. That means you can telephone four times!''
``Yes, dear.'' Bertram's voice was sternly cheerful.
``You must be sure they tell you exactly how Baby is.''
``All right, dear. Sh-h! Here's Romeo.''
Billy subsided. She even clapped a little in spasmodic enthusiasm. Presently she peered at her program again.
``There wouldn't be time, I suppose, to telephone between the scenes,'' she hazarded wistfully.
``There are sixteen of those!''
``Well, hardly! Billy, you aren't paying one bit of attention to the play!''
``Why, of course I am,'' whispered Billy, indignantly. ``I think it's perfectly lovely, and I'm perfectly contented, too--since I found out about those five acts, and as long as I _can't_ have the sixteen scenes,'' she added, settling back in her seat.
As if to prove that she was interested in the play, her next whisper, some time later, had to do with one of the characters on the stage.
``Who's that--the nurse? Mercy! We wouldn't want her for Baby, would we?''
In spite of himself Bertram chuckled this time.
Billy, too, laughed at herself. Then, resolutely, she settled into her seat again.
The curtain was not fairly down on the first act before Billy had laid an urgent hand on her husband's arm.
``Now, remember; ask if he's waked up, or anything,'' she directed. ``And be sure to say I'll come right home if they need me. Now hurry.''
``Yes, dear.'' Bertram rose with alacrity.
``I'll be back right away.''
``Oh, but I don't want you to hurry _too_ much,''
she called after him, softly. ``I want you to take plenty of time to ask questions.''
``All right,'' nodded Bertram, with a quizzical smile, as he turned away.
Obediently Bertram asked all the question she could think of, then came back to his wife.
There was nothing in his report that even Billy could disapprove of, or worry about; and with almost a contented look on her face she turned toward the stage as the curtain went up on the second act.
``I love this balcony scene,'' she sighed happily.
Romeo, however, had not half finished his impassioned love-making when Billy clutched her husband's arm almost fiercely.
``Bertram,'' she fairly hissed in a tragic whisper, ``I've just happened to think! Won't it be awful when Baby falls in love? I know I shall just hate that girl for taking him away from me!''
``Sh-h! _Billy!_'' expostulated her husband, choking with half-stifled laughter. ``That woman in front heard you, I know she did!''
``Well, I shall,'' sighed Billy, mournfully, turning back to the stage.
`` `Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night, till it be morrow,'''
