The agitated girl bent closer over the keyboard to hide her mantling color, while Bob continued, all unconscious of the effect he was producing. "That was twelve years ago. Betty must be twenty-three—think of that!"
"Do you think you'd know her if you saw her now?"
"Know her? Know Betty!" he exclaimed. "Of course I'd know her. I'd know her anywhere."
"Is she—er—pretty?"
Bob thought a moment, stroking his chin wisely. "Um—er—well, no, you couldn't call Betty pretty. Sort of lanky, long-legged girl, with freckles, but she had an air about her, even at eleven. I've no use for these magazine-cover sirens, anyway."
"Does she—does she ever write to you?"
He settled himself on the arm of an easy chair. "We used to write, but it dwindled. I haven't heard from Betty in a long time. You see, I've been hustling in New York, and—she's been studying singing in Paris. She thinks she has a voice, poor child!"
Betty smiled and bit her lip.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this. It can't interest you much," he said.
"Oh, but it does," she insisted. "I like to know about the people I am to meet. I suppose Miss Betty Thompson will visit here?"