“Must last her years and years,” he reflected. “Well, it’s up to me to get her another fan, that’s evident.” And with a clearing of the countenance as if this consideration presented distinct consolation, he rose and wandered out of the arbor. “I wonder where Madama is,” he reflected. She had not come into his mind since her refusal of his request drove him to Mrs. Nixon. “How am I to revive her interest in Rosalie?” he wondered as he moved down the hall.
As soon as Mrs. Bruce had made her perfunctory acknowledgment to Rosalie, she slipped from Robert’s side, unnoticed by a culprit absorbed in his own misdemeanors, and with one glance after Irving and Mrs. Nixon, who were returning to the other end of the room, she moved into the hall, and up the stairs of the inn.
She made no effort to curb the hot resentment that possessed her in every fibre. Her one desire was to reach the cause of her suffering, and wreak her sense of outrage upon her.
It was half an hour after Captain Salter’s departure, and Betsy was smiling to herself as she wound the living-room clock. Her thoughts were with Rosalie; confident of the girl’s success, yet half-frightened by the chance of fortune which had united the Yellowstone party to witness her début. She imagined the scene in the spacious living-room of the hotel. Had the rain not fallen, she had meant to ask Hiram to take her over there, that she might look in through the windows and see the dear child standing, the cynosure of all eyes, even if she could not hear her voice.
She felt certain of Mr. Derwent’s satisfaction in her. As a contraband guest at the Canyon Hotel, Rosalie had recited for him in her room, and to-night Betsy’s heart swelled in the realization that he was seeing the first fruits of his generosity.
Doubts of Mrs. Bruce’s approval did sweep occasionally, like filmy clouds, across the clear happiness of her mind; but the importance of Rosalie’s good fortune was paramount, and Betsy was able to sweep them away.
Suddenly she heard the sound of wheels stopping before the gate. She glanced at the clock.
“So early?” she thought. “They can’t be comin’ home now.”
In a minute more some one ran up the steps, and Mrs. Bruce, in a long light wrap, a chiffon scarf falling from her elaborately dressed hair, came swiftly into the room.
Betsy met the flashing eyes in dismay. She hurried to meet her.