“Oh Irving, I don’t know that I want to stay with Mrs. Nixon!” Mrs. Bruce’s tone indicated that she had suddenly found her doll stuffed with sawdust.
“Stay with Betsy and Miss Maynard then. You have an embarrassment of riches.”
“Did you have a pleasant time with Miss Maynard? What is the demure little creature like when she gets off with a man?”
“Why, she gets on with him.”
“Tell me, Irving.”
“She is interesting,” was the unenthusiastic reply. “She finds the situation a little heady, naturally.”
“Well, it’s absurd to see Mrs. Nixon suddenly so exercised about her. It may be catty of me, but I was very glad you took her away.”
“Oh no, she took me away.” Irving’s tone was colorless. While in the Lookout he had brought the conversation round to Rosalie Vincent. He had had a vague notion that this new-fledged heiress might be the maker of Rosalie’s pathway into more congenial surroundings; but he had met cool indifference on the subject.
“Good-night, Madama.” He kissed her forehead. “Good-night, Betsy. If you’re not down to speed the parting guest, I will expect to see you some day on the shore of the lake, hailing me. Have a good time.”
“Oh, Irving!” began Mrs. Bruce, holding open the door he tried to close; but he interrupted.