“Not all the yesterdays,” she said, and looked back at the fire.
Betsy continued to pat her. The good woman reflected concerning Irving Bruce with an effort at self-control and fairness; but a great longing that this girl should have her heart’s desire passed over her like a wave.
A crunching of the snow sounded without. If Rosalie had been intending to confide in her, the chance was lost. For the first time Betsy regretted to hear her husband’s step.
“There’s Captain Salter,” said Rosalie.
The door opened. “Come in and get dry,” said Betsy, without looking around. She felt compunction for her momentary disloyalty.
“Thanks, I don’t care if I do.”
The women both started and turned. Irving Bruce stood there, his broad shoulders sparkling with snow. He set down his suit-case and stamped his feet. “You’ll have to build a porte-cochère, Betsy. The hack dumped me at the back fence.”
The firelight fell on Rosalie as she stood, flushing.
“Mr. Irving, dear!” cried Betsy, flying at him, considerations of hostess and friend stumbling over one another in the sudden chaos of her mind. “What does this mean?”
“I just thought I’d run down and see the New Year in with you. Where are your manners, Rosalie? You might say you’re glad to see me.”