Betsy followed, an inward pæan of thanksgiving going up from her good heart.
Irving was still talking fishing-tackle at a desk at the opposite end of the office. Miss Maynard was frisking in a two-step with Robert, and the two mothers chaperoned her gravely and with increasing sleepiness, while the orchestra rang its rhythmic changes. Betsy, standing a little at one side of the crowd, told again the story of Rosalie’s life to an attentive listener, who in his turn recounted to her certain circumstances of the Vincent losses.
“And it has come to this, has it,” said Mr. Derwent, “that this young girl hasn’t a friend in the world except you and me?”
“That’s it,” responded Betsy promptly. “That is—” she added hurriedly—“we’re the only safe ones she’s got.”
“How is that?” Mr. Derwent smiled leniently. “A lover? I shouldn’t wonder at that.”
“Oh, no, not a lover. I should hope not! Good gracious!”
Betsy’s manner and precipitate speech made Mr. Derwent smile again.
“You don’t mean that big boy in our stage with two mothers, neither of whom owns him?”
Betsy’s wandering eyes looked so desperately embarrassed that the speaker could not forbear pressing her a little.