"Like to work! Why, Mrs. Horatio nailed up the blinds yesterday in the Reverend Horatio's room so he couldn't climb out through the window. Haw, haw, haw! Intense intellectual cat!"
Whether this last was meant as a slur on Harriet or a compliment to Martin Luther Betty never discovered, for at this moment the luncheon came to an end with a murmur of talk as to afternoon plans. The countess, having flashed her fascinations on young Baxter, now carried him off with a suggestion of cigarettes. Mrs. Baxter proposed a drive and offered to drop the Merles at St. Timothy's, which offer Harriet accepted for herself alone, explaining that the walk would do Horatio good and would allow him to continue his oratorical meditations uninterrupted. This proved to be an unfortunate decision.
Betty returned to her work in the library, where she was glad to be alone, away from the chatter and the trivialities, alone with her thoughts; yet not alone, for every corner of this great room seemed alive with memories of the morning, memories of him. What a very great difference a few hours had made! How extraordinary that this vigorous young American, whom she had not seen for years, should have suddenly—without intending to do it, without dreaming that he had done it—should have—well, what had he done? What was the truth about her feeling for this playmate of her childhood, Bob Baxter?
Does a woman ever admit, even to herself, that a man has won her heart until she has good reason to believe that she has won his? Does a pretty woman, a young and charming woman, ever admit such a thing? Probably not, and Betty was no exception to this rule of feminine reserve. But there were two significant indications in her thoughts, one that she did not in the least enjoy the Countess Kate's flirtatious tendencies with Bob and the other a decision that now she could not break her incognito, even if she would. Her pride forbade it. To let Bob know that she was his old friend, Betty Thompson, would be a confession of weakness, as if she admitted that she was not charming or pretty enough to attract him simply as Miss Thompson. No, decidedly she would not tell him.
Betty had just arrived at this self-respecting conclusion when there came a step outside and the curate entered.
"I beg your pardon," he began timidly. "I am the Reverend Horatio Merle, one of the relatives. I believe you are Miss Thompson, the new secretary?"
"Yes," said Betty.
Horatio consulted his watch and paused as if making an arithmetical calculation.
"Let me see, the bazaar opens at half past three. My watch says five minutes past three, which means that it is really a quarter past two. I like to keep my watch fifty-five minutes ahead of time, Miss Thompson," he explained, with a bright smile.
"Why not an hour ahead?" she laughed.