“It isn’t, you flatterer,” returned Mrs. Bruce, with a little conscious laugh; and she gave a triumphant side-glance at Betsy, who kept eyes ahead, fearing every moment that her mistress’s complaisance would receive a shock in the comprehension of Irving’s drift.
He understood the meaning of a swift glance suddenly sent him by Miss Foster, and began to whistle, softly.
As they neared the hotel he spoke. “Come to my room for a minute, Betsy, please. I need some sewing up, and I’ll give it to you so you can take it over and sit by Mrs. Bruce to see that she obeys my order to take a nap.”
Mrs. Bruce regarded him affectionately and went with docility to the greenwood of her bedroom; and Betsy, with no change of feature, followed Irving to his. When they were inside, he closed the door, seated Betsy in a green rocker, and put himself astride a straight chair.
“You know very well,” said Betsy uneasily, “that if I stay, Mrs. Bruce will come over here.”
“No, she won’t,” returned Irving, “for the best of reasons. She doesn’t know which room I have.”
“Well, give me your things quick,” said Betsy.
“Why are you afraid, all of a sudden?”
“I—” returned Betsy, hesitating, “I want to—to keep her happy.”