"Why, through Dr. Gleason. You knew that!"
"Yes, but I know only that. You never did—exactly this sort of work before, did you?"
"No—oh, no. But there has to be a beginning, you know; and mother says she thinks every girl ought to know how to do something, so that she can support herself if it is necessary. And in our case I think—it is necessary."
Low as the last words were, the man's sensitively alert ear caught them.
"You mean—"
"I mean—I think mother is—is poor, and is trying to keep it from me." The words came with all the impetuosity of one who has found suddenly a sympathetic ear for a long-pent secret. "I can see it in so many ways—not keeping a maid, and being so—so anxious that I shall do well here. And—and she doesn't seem natural, some way, lately. She's unhappy, or something. And she goes out so little—almost never, except in the evening."
"She doesn't care to—to see people, perhaps." By a supreme effort Burke Denby hid the fever of excitement and rejoicing within him, and toned his voice to just the right shade of solicitous interest.
"No, she doesn't," admitted Betty, with a long sigh. Then, impulsively, she added: "She seems so very afraid of meeting people that I've wondered sometimes if maybe she had old friends here and—and didn't want to meet them because—perhaps, her circumstances were changed now. That isn't like mother, but— Oh, I shouldn't say all this to you, Mr. Denby. I—I didn't think, really. I spoke before I thought. You seemed so—interested."
"I am interested, my dear—Miss Darling," returned the man, not quite steadily. "I—I think I should like to know—your mother."
"She's lovely."