“She has?” ejaculated Mrs. Bruce with interest.
“Yes; they showed ’em to me, some of ’em, when I went to Mrs. Nixon’s; and they’re elegant.”
“Oh, yes; with Miss Maynard’s pocket-book, one can find very good things; and since they’re coming here for the rest of the season, she doesn’t need much. You say Mrs. Nixon wired for the rooms?”
“Yes, right off; and they think they’ll get here Saturday.”
That evening Irving Bruce, descrying Betsy stooping over her sweet-pea bed, joined her.
“How is Miss Vincent?” he inquired.
Betsy rose and regarded him.
“Set a spell,” he continued, drawing her down upon a garden-seat.
“I haven’t got anything to tell you, Mr. Irving.”
“Nonsense,” remarked the young man easily. “Don’t you suppose I know that you went to town to get clothes for somebody? Mrs. Bruce told me that. Of course it was Rosalie. Whose gift? Yours or Mr. Derwent’s?”