“No one but me, you may be sure. Betsy knows that I am so perfectly trustworthy, she tells me everything. Did she ever give me a character to you?”
“Yes—No—I don’t know. Let’s go into the house, Mr. Bruce. This gown must last me for years, and years.”
Irving obediently led the girl within doors, where, in a corner of the hall, in lieu of palms, were set Christmas trees in tubs. Into a seat behind these he ushered her.
“I’m afraid my next partner can’t find me here,” she said doubtfully.
“We have the next together.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Bruce!”
“I know it, Rosalie. I wonder why I venture to call you Rosalie.”
As he spoke Irving took up her fan and began to use it as he gazed at her girlish profile.
“I don’t know,” she returned, a little pulse beating in her throat. “I think, myself, Miss Vincent would sound better.”
“Ah, Betsy!” thought Irving, closing his teeth. “I’ll pay you for this.”