“Maybe I didn’t butt in just right!” she reflected. “Oh, he’s just grand! Good for Baby! I guess she’s goin’ some!”
Betsy bided her time. She was sure that before the party reached Boston, Mr. Derwent would again open the subject of their mutual interest.
Irving’s silence upon it awakened no suspicion in her faithful breast. She had assured him that all was well, and adjured him to trust her; and, his mind set at rest, the thought of Rosalie had slipped out of it, which, considering that he belonged to Mrs. Bruce, was the best thing that could happen.
Betsy’s expectation was well-founded. One afternoon after their train had left Chicago, and there came a lull in the interminable games of bridge which had whiled the hours away, Mr. Derwent approached the seat where Betsy sat alone, viewing the flying landscape—flat but not unprofitable.
“May I sit here a minute?” he asked.
She gave him a one-sided smile of welcome. A veil was wrapped around her head in much the same fashion in which she wore a cheese-cloth on cleaning days at home.
They talked for half an hour; the noise of the train increasing, as it always did, the ease of Mr. Derwent’s hearing.
Mrs. Bruce glanced at them more than once, well pleased with the satisfied expression on her handmaid’s countenance.
She addressed Mrs. Nixon.