“Probably she is to the manner born,” returned Irving absent-mindedly. His thoughts were with the fair-haired girl whose round slender arms were bearing a tray across the dining-room.
“That is no work for Miss Vincent,” he observed tentatively.
“I don’t think we know,” returned Mrs. Bruce coolly.
“You said once,” remarked Betsy quietly, “that Rosalie was an artist; that you always knew ’em when you saw ’em. It does seem queer work for an artist.”
Mrs. Bruce stared at her companion in surprise.
“Well, whose fault is it, I should like to know. She did have some talent. I tried to have it cultivated, but evidently she was too superficial. People find their level. You can’t help it.”
Betsy gave Irving such a repressive look that he swallowed some remark which had reached the end of his tongue. Then, again opening his lips, he gave Mrs. Bruce a résumé of what had happened to her protégée since her befriending of the girl.
“Well, why shouldn’t she have married Mrs. Pogram’s brother?” she returned carelessly.
“He is a cad, I tell you,” returned Irving, manfully repressing his rising wrath.