Betty lifted her brows and tossed her young head.
"Well, he's improving," she flashed mischievously. "He asked for the salt and the pepper, yesterday. And to-day he actually observed that he thought it looked like snow—at the table, I mean. Of course he speaks to me about my work through the day; but he doesn't say any more than is necessary. Truly, mother, dear, I'd never leave my happy home for him."
"Oh, Betty, how can you say—such dreadful things!"
Betty laughed again mischievously.
"Don't worry, mumsey. He'll never ask me to do it! But, honestly, mother, I can't see any use in a man's being so stern and glum all the time."
"Does he really act so unhappy, then?"
At an unmistakable something in her mother's voice Betty looked up in surprise.
"Why, mother, that sounded exactly as if you were glad he was unhappy!" she exclaimed.
Helen, secretly dismayed and terrified, boldly flaunted the flag of courage.
"Did I? Oh, no," she laughed easily. "Still, I'm not so sure but I am a little glad: if he's unhappy, all the more chance for you to make yourself indispensable by helping him and making him happy. See?"