"Shut the door and spare my blushes," said her aunt. "What's up now?" She looked at the watch on the bed-table. "Why its only just six."
"I can't help it," said Betty; "you've had all the night to sleep in. I haven't. I want you to get up and dress and come to Paris with me by the early train."
"Sit down," said the aunt. "No, not on the bed. I hate that. In this chair. Now remember that we all parted last night in the best of spirits, and that as far as I know nothing has happened since."
"Oh, no—nothing of course!" said Betty.
"Don't be ironical," said Miss Desmond; "at six in the morning it's positively immoral. Tell me all—let me hear the sad sweet story of your life."
"Very well," said Betty, "if you're only going to gibe I'll go alone. Or I'll get Mr. Temple to take me."
"To see the other man? That will be nice."
"Who said anything about—?"
"You did, the moment you came in. Come child; sit down and tell me. I'm not unsympathetic. I'm only very, very sleepy. And I did think everything was arranged. I was dreaming of orange blossoms and The Voice That Breathed. And the most beautiful trousseau marked E.T. And silver fish-knives, and salt-cellars in a case lined with purple velvet."
"Go on," said Betty, "if it amuses you."