“Not for your own sake, I’ll bet.”
“No. Give me your things, Mr. Irving.”
The young man did not move. “Betsy,” he said, “she mustn’t stay here.”
“Who mustn’t stay where?” she returned, reddening.
“You heard Mr. Derwent say that they were related,” went on Irving.
“You think,” said Betsy, with rare sarcasm, “she’d be in better business writin’ stories for some fireside paper, or imposin’ on folks’ credulity?”
Her companion magnanimously overlooked the thrust.
“She’s too fine from head to foot, physically, and too fine in her innocence, to be touched with anything rough. She mustn’t stay here.”
“Who’s to prevent it?” asked Betsy quietly, though Irving was unconsciously rewarding her for much of her devotion.
“I am.”