“Oh, you remember Rosalie, do you?” asked Betsy dryly, as she resumed her work.
“To be sure. That was her name. Pretty name. Pretty girl. A real village beauty.”
“Yes,” said Betsy. “You very likely remember Mrs. Bruce took a lot of interest in her. Had her here to speak poetry one day.”
“Oh, I remember her very well,” returned the young man. “I don’t recall the poetry though. So that was her forte. Apt to interfere with opening up and airing out other people’s cottages, I suppose.”
“Yes, if it’s encouraged. Hers was encouraged.”
Betsy’s lips snapped together and her tone caused her companion to glance around at her over his shoulder.
“Mildew sort of got on your nerves, Betsy?” he asked, amused. “Don’t worry. There’s a free-for-all chemistry here that will fix it up in no time. Drop that duster and come and look at the ocean. It will steady you.”
“Steady me!” Betsy gave a derisive grunt. “Tell that to the marines. I’ve had experience of its steadiness the last month, haven’t I?”
Irving laughed at certain memories of his companion’s walnut profile, with lips pursed in the throes of endurance.