“Well,” said Betsy reluctantly, casting a glance toward the piazza, “we got her a black lace.”
“Too old, I should think.”
“No, no, ’tain’t,” Betsy forgot her reluctance in defense. “It’s sort o’ half low neck and has fluffy things on it—real pretty.”
“What else?”
“A white lace one— Oh, she does look just like an angel in it, Mr. Irving!”
The speaker suddenly remembered herself, and her lips snapped together.
Irving frowned slightly. “Well, Mr. Derwent is blowing himself.”
“He gave me five hundred dollars, Mr. Irving, and told me to fit that child out!” Betsy could not resist imparting her joyous news. “Oh,”—she heaved a long, eloquent sigh,—“I’ve had one good time, I tell you! I wanted to stay longer, but I promised Mrs. Bruce; and the everyday things she can get herself. She’s smart, and knows that the plainest things look best on her; because the Creator’s made her so she don’t need any trimmin’ up. I went to Mrs. Nixon’s house, and there they were dressin’ Miss Maynard out of a bottomless purse; but I’ll match my girl against her.”
Irving, attentive, watched the narrow face glow.
“And where did you say Rosalie is living?”