Mrs. Nixon sighed. “Robert is such a scatterbrain,” she returned.
Mrs. Bruce continued her glance around, curious to see the waitress who had been the subject of remark. She saw a fair young girl wearing a veil; but her near-sighted glance awakened no memory.
“I’m glad,” she thought, “that Betsy has some one to talk to.”
CHAPTER IX
THE FOUNTAIN HOUSE
It was late and cold when the party reached the Fountain House, and the big open fire burning in the office was a welcome sight.
Robert Nixon’s prophecy was fulfilled, and Mr. Derwent managed to be waited upon by Rosalie at supper. The Bruce party happened to sit with their backs to that table, and indeed Betsy did not expect either of her companions to recognize the girl in this place and position so remote from the spot where they had known her but slightly.
Mrs. Pogram had often in past days spoken to Betsy of her husband’s distant relatives the Vincents, once wealthy and highly placed, then reduced to financial ruin, illness, and death, leaving this pretty blossom alone on the family tree. The good lady had often mentioned, as being to Rosalie’s credit, that she was without false pride or foolish reverting to the past of her luxurious childhood; and the situation had appealed to whatever was romantic in Betsy Foster’s breast. There had always been for her some atmosphere about Rosalie Vincent as of the exiled Princess in servitude, and the sweetness with which the girl undertook Mrs. Pogram’s drudgery had oftentimes excited an admiration in Betsy which she never put into words.
She fought now with a sense of pathos that Rosalie should be hurrying back and forth under the orders of hungry travelers.