“That’s the worst of having a person like Betsy,” she thought; “one gets so dependent. It’s humiliating. I feel just like asking her not to go, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that.”
So Mrs. Bruce compromised by being silent and wearing an abused air.
“Once in a while Betsy will do a real selfish thing,” she reflected; and she demanded of memory to stand and deliver the last occasion when her housekeeper had displayed base ingratitude. Memory appearing to find the task difficult, she resorted to deep sighs and an ostentatious headache.
Betsy was amused, but also somewhat touched.
“She ain’t anything but a child, never was, and never will be,” she thought. “You can’t get out of a barrel what ain’t in it.”
She told her mistress of the pleasant rooms at the inn available because of having suddenly been given up by their usual occupants. “I’ll go see Mrs. Nixon and tell her about ’em,” she added. “Mr. Beebe’s promised to hold ’em till Wednesday.”
Mrs. Bruce put her hand to her forehead, but apparently was too far gone, sunk among her cushions, to reply.
“I think it would be real nice for you to do a lot o’ sailin’ while I’m gone,” said Betsy cheerfully.