"But what did you sing? Oh, you—you didn't sing any of those foolish, nonsensical songs, did you?" implored Helen, half rising from her chair.
"But I did," bridled Betty. Then, as her mother fell back dismayed, she cried: "Did you suppose I'd risk singing solemn things to a man who had just learned to laugh?"
"But, ragtime!" moaned Helen, "when he's always hated it so!"
"'Always hated it so'!" echoed Betty, with puzzled eyes. "Why, I hadn't played it before, dearie. I hadn't played anything!"
"No, no, I—I mean always hated everything gay and lively like ragtime," corrected Helen, her cheeks abnormally pink, as she carefully avoided the doctor's eyes. "Why didn't you play some of your good music, dear?"
"Oh, I did, afterwards, of course,—MacDowell and Schubert, and that lullaby we love. But he liked the ragtime, too, all right. I know he did. Besides, it just did me good to liven up the old house a bit. I know Benton was listening in the hall, and I'm positive Sarah and the cook had the dining-room door open. As for Mrs. Gowing, she—dear old soul—just sat and frankly cried. And the merrier I sang, the faster the tears rolled down her face—but it was for joy. I could see that. And once I heard her mutter: 'To think that ever again I should hear music and laughter—here!' Dr. Gleason, did Mr. Denby ever love somebody once, and do I look like her?"
Taken utterly by surprise, the doctor, for one awful minute, floundered in appalled confusion. It was Helen this time who came to the rescue.
"I shall tell the doctor he needn't answer that question, Betty," she said, with just a shade of reproval in her voice. "If he did know of such a thing, do you think he ought to tell you, or anybody else?"
Betty laughed and colored a little.
"No, dear, of course not. And I shouldn't have asked it, should I?"