“Law, child, you’ll have to fight ’em off,” was the reply. “Did—did you and Mr. Irving part real friendly?”
“Oh, certainly. I must show you something he gave me a good while ago.”
The girl rose and went to her own room. Betsy laid down her work and gazed ahead. “Ain’t she made o’ the real stuff, though!” she thought. “I guess Irving Bruce has found out that porcelain’s pretty strong sometimes!”
Here Rosalie returned and put into her friend’s hands an exquisite white fan, whose carved sticks Betsy examined with admiration.
“If he’s given you this?” she said, looking up questioningly.
“He had to, I suppose,” returned the girl, “practically; he broke mine the first night we met at the inn. It was part of my outfit. I couldn’t object to his making it good.”
Betsy laughed at the prosaic tone, and looked back at the rich toy.
“He made it good, all right,” she remarked. “When you need another outfit you can pawn this.”
“It is very handsome,” said Rosalie, regarding her possession, while the downcast eyes darkened again under their drooping lids.