“Not a doubt of it,” Betsy replied promptly. She feared that any other answer would send her companion to the commissary department of the inn.
Helen Maynard and Mr. Derwent were together watching the lovely sight when Robert Nixon came upon them. His hands were in his pockets and he was whistling softly, as was his wont when the performance was not cheerfully piercing.
“May I come and stand by the rich lady?” he asked.
The geyser was just disappearing.
“How cold and blank the night seems to have turned!” said Helen pensively.
Robert struck his breast with his doubled fist.
“Cruel maiden!” he ejaculated, “why flout me thus? Say, Miss Maynard,” he continued, in a voice changed to interest, “do you know you can make Uncle Henry hear better than anybody?”
“I have made a study of it,” returned the girl composedly.
Robert gazed at her admiringly. “I think it was downright fine and heroic for Uncle Henry to crush those conspirators and get your shekels for you. He’s going to miss you like his right hand.”
“I hope he will miss me a little.” As she spoke Helen looked up at the fine head set so well on Mr. Derwent’s broad shoulders; at the white mustache, and gray hair, and all the features she knew so well.