Irving sighed and succumbed. Finding his adorer was an easy matter, and he did so without more ado. They joined the throng that moved toward the geyser, and as good fortune would have it, were in time to find one seat on the benches where Mrs. Bruce and Mrs. Nixon could sit together. Then Irving unostentatiously withdrew, and again catching Betsy by the arm took her a few paces away. The silvery light of the clear moon bathed the cool mountain night.
“What have you decided to do, Betsy?” he asked.
“I suppose you mean Rosalie.”
Irving gave the thin arm an impatient shake.
“Well,” said Betsy coolly, “I haven’t decided.”
“If you don’t do something, I shall.”
“You ain’t qualified,” remarked Betsy curtly.
“Are you?” retorted her companion. “That thing mustn’t be allowed to go on. That waitress business! That lovely flower subjected to orders and winks and tips. I won’t stand it.”
“Well now, you can’t do a thing!” declared Betsy firmly.
“Are you going to?”