"He lost?"
"Lost his money and a lot of Father's. They had been partners for twenty-odd years, did a nice conservative banking business until this thing happened."
"Oh! Oh!!" murmured the unhappy girl. "Why did he do it?"
"The same old reason. They always lived in a rather large way. The old man had a daughter, an only child, and—he just worshiped her, lavished things on her. I'd have done the same, for she's a corking fine girl, Betty is, only—it took a lot of money and—Betty wanted to live in Paris and—oh, well, you understand."
"You mean she was extravagant?"
"Generous—extravagant—it comes to the same thing, and the old gentleman wanted to leave her so she could live as she pleased, but—he didn't do it."
Bob had risen again and stood leaning against one of the stiff-backed chairs, blowing cigarette smoke thoughtfully toward the conservatory. For a few moments Betty could scarcely trust herself to speak.
"And the girl—Betty—what became of her?" she asked presently.
"Oh, she's over in Paris, I believe. She doesn't know a word of this. I'm only telling you as Father's private secretary and—you understand this is absolutely confidential, Miss Thompson?"
"Of course."