"Betty, dear, hear me! I don't know— I don't understand. It's all too wonderful—to have it come—now. Once, for a little minute, the wild thought came to me that you might be. But, Betty, you yourself told me your father was—dead!"
"And so he is—to me," sobbed Betty. "You aren't my father. My father was good and true and noble and—you—"
"And your mother told you that?" breathed the man, brokenly. "Betty, I—I— Where is she? Is she there—at home—now? I want to—see her!"
"I shan't let you see her." Betty had blazed again into unreasoning wrath. "You don't deserve it. You told her you were ashamed of her. Ashamed of her! And she's the best and the loveliest and dearest mother in the world! She's as much above and beyond anything you—you— Why she let me come to you I don't know. I can't think why she did it. But now I—I—"
"Betty, if you'll only let me explain—"
But the great hall door had banged shut. Betty had gone.
Betty took a car to her own home. She was too weak and spent to walk.
It was a very white, shaken Betty that climbed the stairs to the little apartment a short time later.
"Why, Betty, darling!" exclaimed her mother, hurrying forward. "You are ill! Are you ill?"
With utter weariness Betty dropped into a chair.