“You left the inn last night, in anger,” he said at last.
“Hurt! So hurt, Irving,” she cried.
“You came home and wreaked your ill-temper on Betsy—Betsy, whose little finger is of more worth than your whole body and mine.”
Mrs. Bruce panted and flushed. “I did talk to her of her ill judgment—you don’t know, Irving—what do you think of her spending her savings of years on Rosalie Vincent?”
“She didn’t.”
“Why, of course she did. Who else paid the hundreds of dollars which brought her here and equipped her?”
“An old friend of her father’s family. Betsy had no need to spend a cent for her, although she would have asked nothing better, I have no doubt; because her life has been spent in doing for others. She knew that Rosalie would not accept such gifts from her, because that girl is a kindred noble soul.”
Mrs. Bruce took a step backward in this destruction of the very foundation of her defense.
“I don’t ask to know all the pitiful scene that took place. This,” Irving indicated the desolation of the room with a wave of his hand, “this speaks. Betsy has gone—”
“She did it in revenge,” cried Mrs. Bruce. “She knew how it would make you suffer. She wanted to punish me.”