“I suppose nothing that I can say will pierce through your self-conceit; but I am willing to have any explanation you have to offer. You think you’ve outwitted everybody, and you’ve succeeded in getting your own way; but it’s nothing to be proud of, Betsy—and old age will be coming upon you, and you’ll think of that money a good many times, I can tell you.”
She paused again, and looking up found Betsy’s grave eyes following her. There was another short silence, then Betsy spoke.
“Mrs. Bruce, when you are thinkin’ this evenin’ over, as you will, there’s just one thing I’ll ask you to remember. It’s an old sayin’ out o’ the far east: ‘Of the unspoken word you are master. The spoken word is master o’ you.’ Good-night.”
With this Betsy walked out of the room without one backward look, and Mrs. Bruce stood, baffled, and trembling with her own excitement.
Alone, she sank on the divan with her face buried in the pillows.
It was quite within the range of possibility that at this moment Irving was dancing with Rosalie Vincent, and did not even observe her own absence from the room.
She sobbed, stifling the sound in the pillows lest Betsy should hear and return to her assistance, believing her to be repentant. It was like Betsy to refuse to answer her; to treat her like a child; to throw upon her, by her manner, the blame of all that occurred. It was infuriating; unbearable. Her breath came in spasms, and she fought for her self-control.