"I—I didn't want to," she answered in a low tone.
"That's no answer. I don't see why you did it."
"You don't? Bob, you must see why I wanted to help Guardy when he's been so good to me, and—he had no secretary, and—I've been so extravagant. Think of all the money Guardy has given me, and I—I supposed it was mine, I thought it was money father left me, but—he really left nothing. He—he left nothing."
"Nothing? He left the finest, pluckiest girl in the world. And, anyway, I don't see why you had to hide your name. Why didn't you say you were Betty Thompson and not just any old Miss Thompson? I mean any young Miss Thompson," he added, laughing.
She hesitated before answering.
"Bob, you may not believe me, you think musicians are crazy people—yes, you do, you said so, but—I've worked hard at my singing, and—I have a voice, a fine voice. I've sung in concerts, and—I'm going to make a name for myself, not like Melba or Emma Eames, but—well, you'll hear of Elizabeth Thompson some day, and it won't be as a secretary pounding on a typewriter, either; it will be as a singer. So there!" She drew herself up with a flash of the eye and a lift of the chin that made Bob thrill as he watched her. "Now you see why I'm just plain Miss Thompson."
"Betty, you know you've been talking nonsense; you know you've not given me the right reason."
Betty dropped her eyes in confusion. "If there was another reason it was a—foolish reason, and——" suddenly she drew back, and, with a start of remembrance, changed the subject. "How stupid! We're forgetting the bishop."
"Hang the bishop! He's lying down. He says we're going to have a storm—says he aches all over—that's how he knows."
"How interesting! I believe we are going to have a storm. Look, Bob." She pointed to a line of heavy clouds advancing formidably in purple black masses.