“That’s just about as considerate as you are!” returned Mrs. Bruce, with remarkable fire for one in the languorous stage of headache. “You know very well that at the best of times I don’t care very much for sailing.”
“I thought with Mr. Irving and Cap’n Salter both, you felt real safe, and enjoyed it,” said Betsey pacifically; and Mrs. Bruce had sundry disconcerting memories of hiking hilariously with her hand on her boy’s shoulder.
“Don’t you suppose,” she said with a superior air, “that I ever make a pretense of enjoying things for Irving’s sake?”
Betsy’s lips twitched. “You acted so natural you took me in,” she returned meekly.
Mrs. Bruce sank back again among her pillows.
“I’ll make out a list for all the meals while I’m gone,” said Betsy comfortingly, “and give it to the cook. You see, Mrs. Bruce, one o’ my friends that’s lived in the country and is very inexperienced, wants to get a few clothes in the city. She don’t know where to go or what to pay, and I told her I’d come in for a couple o’ days and help her. You won’t scarcely miss me before I’m back.”
“I must say, Betsy,” declared her mistress faintly, “some people would have waited until there was no guest in the house.”
“I’m real sorry I can’t wait,” returned Betsy gently; “but I’m goin’ to arrange for the meals, as I say, so you won’t have a mite o’ trouble, and Mr. Nixon always makes everything jolly.”
Mrs. Bruce made no reply, and Betsy left the room.
Going out on the street, she heard a piercing whistle down the street, executing a classic which would inspire a bronze image to cake-walk.