“Finding some pretty things?” he asked.
She nodded vigorously. Mr. Derwent would have been surprised to know how constantly his image had held possession of this woman’s thoughts since yesterday afternoon.
Hiram Salter was a bird in the bush, and no matter how wary, Betsy felt that she could lure him—yes, upstart conscience, even without the aid of postal cards!—to come to her and eat out of her hand; but Mr. Derwent was the bird already in that hand so far as physical neighborhood was concerned. She had wondered through many hours how she could compass a conversation with the deaf gentleman which others should not overhear.
Betsy looked wildly around for a likely spot for a vociferous tête-à-tête. There was a corridor which ran out of the large office in each direction, and from which opened the first-floor bedrooms.
Would the elegant Mr. Derwent think she was quite mad if she endeavored to lead him down one of these, and was there a chance of her accomplishing the move without the observation of the two tabby-cats? Yes, as a truthful biographer I must admit that this was the title bestowed by Rosalie’s champion upon two complacent ladies since the playing of the Riverside Geyser yesterday afternoon.
Mr. Derwent’s voice interrupted her swift thoughts.
“What have you been finding that is pretty? Is there anything here I ought to get?”
Betsy repeated her vigorous nodding and addressed the saleswoman.
“Let me see that water-color of the canyon again, please.”