At this juncture Eleanor's maid appeared with word that Miss Betty Thompson had arrived and had gone to her apartment, which, it appeared, did not please her. She wanted a sitting-room overlooking the Thames, whereas this one opened on a court-yard.
"Tell Miss Thompson I'll see her in a moment," said Mrs. Baxter. Then, when the maid had gone: "There! You see Mistress Betty must have the most expensive rooms in the hotel."
"Well, why not?" retorted Baxter. "She thinks she's a rich girl and can afford 'em." He sat looking thoughtfully at his big strong hands while Eleanor rose to go. "I hate to tell her, but—I s'pose I must."
"Of course you must tell her. You should have told her long ago."
"Perhaps. But—remember, Eleanor, not a word about her father's speculations." He spoke with sudden authority.
"I don't see why Betty Thompson shouldn't know the truth about her father. Why should she be spared any more than the rest of us?"
"Because I say so," answered Baxter, with a glance from under his heavy brows that his wife had rarely seen. "It would make her unhappy and it wouldn't do any good." Then in a low tone and with sudden tenderness he added: "Ye know who Betty makes me think of, dearie? Of our little sunshine girl that's—that's gone. She's got the same eyes and—the same pretty ways, and—say, I wish ye'd send Betty in here, I want to talk to her."
Eleanor looked at her husband without replying, and something changed in her face—something beyond the wizardry of any picture hat to conceal. Then, quietly, she gathered up her things and left the room. And a few minutes later Betty Thompson appeared, a radiant vision of youth and sweetness that brought joy to old Baxter's heart.
"Why, Betty!" he exclaimed, stretching out both his hands, and she came to him quickly, her eyes shining with fondness.
"Dear Guardy! I'm so glad to see you," she murmured, as he held her in his strong arms and deepened the roses of her cheeks with two vigorous and affectionate smacks.