Betty sat up. "You mean to say you didn't know it? One of them! The one, my child! Surely you remember about his broken heart?—the married lady he was recovering from in Washington last year? Well, May's it. Of course I'm not supposed to know, being an ingénue—but our Neddy was frightfully gone on her, and she returned it, and the husband she had then got jealous (rather a bounder he was, not one of us, you know), and there was some sort of excitement, and she divorced him. Every one thought to marry Uncle Ned, of course. But instead she upped and married Mr. Rossiter! Joke on Neddy, wasn't it?"
Joan's lip curled. "What a romantic love story! Why do you suppose she married that old Mr. Rossiter?"
Betty shrugged in a worldly-wise manner. "Awfully rich, my dear. And Neddy isn't."
"But they seem friendly enough still, she and Mr. Desmond?"
"Oh, of course. Why not? It would be frightfully uncomfortable for the rest of us if they glowered and didn't speak and all that, like quarreling servants. And Uncle Neddy seems to be consoling himself!" She twinkled at Joan. "That evens things up, you see. But,"—she suddenly grew grave—"what do you get out of all this, Joan? You couldn't possibly like seeing so much of Uncle Neddy! He's such a—softy. And such a bore, too, with his art and poetry and stuff."
"You mean," smiled Joan, "he's too mature for you, dear."
"Too mature for you then, too! You're only a few months older."
The other gave an unconscious sigh. "Oh, me—I'm different."
Betty rounded upon her, "You certainly are! I've never seen such a change in any one as a few months have made in you! Sometimes I hardly recognize you for the Jo I used to know at school—so funny and larky, and yet paying no more attention to the boys we used to make eyes at over at the College than if they didn't exist."
"College boys don't exist," said Joan gravely. "They're like tadpoles, just a transition state. And rather disgusting."