She looked at the faithful woman now with a new curiosity. Mankind loves a lover. Yes, of course; but Betsy couldn’t have a lover! The cheese-cloth binding the hair away from the high sallow forehead, taken in connection with the prominent thin nose and retreating chin, presented the class of profile which explains the curious human semblance taken on by a walnut when similarly coiffed. No—that designing sailor was tired of living alone. He wanted a housekeeper and a cook. How did he dare! Quite a blaze of indignation mounted in the breast of Betsy’s fortunate owner. What a blessed thing that Betsy was the sort of woman who could see into a millstone and could be trusted to flout her deceitful wooer to the end. Mrs. Bruce spoke with gracious playfulness.
“You never told me Captain Salter was a beau of yours, Betsy.”
The other did not cease to beat up the cushions of the wicker chairs.
“I don’t know as I ever did take the time to reg’larly sit down and give you my history, Mrs. Bruce,” was the reply.
And that lady took a few moments to reflect upon the spirit of the crisp words, finally deciding to veer away from the subject.
“Now what can I do to help you, Betsy? I know you want everything spick and span before that cook comes to-morrow.”
Betsy looked up.
“I’ve laid the silver out there on the dining-room table. You might clean it. Here, let me put this apron on you.” And abruptly abandoning the cushions, the speaker hurried into the dining-room, divided from the living-room only by an imaginary line, and seizing an enveloping gingham apron, concealed Mrs. Bruce’s trim China silk from head to foot.
The mistress sat down at the table and opened the silver-polish, and Betsy returned to her work.
“I’ve been asking Captain Salter about the neighbors, and especially about my little protégée.”