No, Billy Byrne, the mucker, did not belong there. Nor ever
could he belong, more than Barbara ever could have "belonged"
on Grand Avenue. And Billy Byrne knew it now. His
heart went cold. The bottom seemed suddenly to have
dropped out of his life.
Bravely he had battled to forget this wonderful creature, or,
rather, his hopeless love for her--her he could never forget.
But the note from her, and the sight of her had but served to
rekindle the old fire within his breast.
He thought quickly. His own life or happiness did not
count. Nothing counted now but Barbara. He had seen the
lovelight in her eyes. He thanked God that he had realized
what it all would have meant, before he let her see that he
had seen it.
"I've been back several months," he said presently, in
answer to her question; "but I got sense enough to stay where
I belong. Gee! Wouldn't I look great comin' up here buttin' in,
wit youse bunch of highlifes?"
Billy slapped his thigh resoundingly and laughed in
stentorian tones that caused the eyebrows of the sensitive Smith on
the floor above to elevate in shocked horror.
"Den dere was de mills. I couldn't break away from me
work, could I, to chase a bunch of skirts?"
Barbara felt a qualm of keen disappointment that Billy had
fallen again into the old dialect that she had all but eradicated
during those days upon distant "Manhattan Island.
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