“I will. Say, Mr. Nixon,”—they were strolling toward the house, Betsy hanging back unaccountably,—“I hope you and Mr. Irving’ll be sort of attentive to Mrs. Bruce for a couple o’ days.”
“Sure thing. I’m eternally attentive to her. What’s up?”
“Well—she doesn’t like to have me go; has the habit of me, you know; and I’ve got to go, that’s all there is about it.”
“Sad! sad!” ejaculated Robert. “Frightful thing—habit. You seemed so mild out in the Yellowstone I hadn’t an idea you couldn’t endure the quiet of the country a week.”
“Now I’m relyin’ quite a lot,” said Betsy, “on your foolishness.”
“What?” inquired the young man, his voice breaking.
“Mrs. Bruce can impose on Mr. Irving—I mean,—you know what I mean, she can make him fall in with her moods; while you—well, you’re just as good as a rattle to—”
“Betsy,—now, Betsy, beware! I have average poise, I hope, still I’m only human. My head can be turned!”
Betsy smiled. “I don’t know as I exactly make you understand what I mean—”