"Oh, I did!" Betty put in reproachfully.
"You talk to her like a father. Tell her where naughty little girls go who stay out late at the Café d'Harcourt—fire and brimstone, you know. She'll understand, she's a clergyman's daughter."
"I really do think you'd better go home," said the new-comer to Betty with gentle politeness.
"I would, directly," said Betty, almost in tears, "but—the fact is I haven't settled on a hotel, and I came to this café. I thought I could ask one of these art students to tell me a good hotel, but—so that's how it is."
"I should think not," Temple answered the hiatus. Then he looked at the black-browed, scowling woman, and his look was very kind.
"Nini and her German swine were beginning to be amiable," said the woman in an aside which Betty did not hear. "For Christ's sake take the child away, and put her safely for the night somewhere, if you have to ring up a Mother Superior or a Governesses' Aid Society."
"Right. I will." He turned to Betty.
"Will you allow me," he said, "to find a carriage for you, and see you to a hotel?"
"Thank you," said Betty.
He went out to the curbstone and scanned the road for a passing carriage.