In a minute Williard was in the music-room.
"I really do not know that I ought to shake hands with you, Dick," began Betty, tossing her hat on the piano. "You have deceived me for years."
"Deceived you! What do you mean?"—mightily disturbed.
"Wait a moment." She brought forth a paper. "Sit down in front of me. This is going to be a court of inquiry, and your sins shall be passed in review." He obeyed meekly. "Now listen," the girl went on, mischief in her eyes; "this paper says horrid things about you. It claims that you have given riotous dinners to actresses and comic-opera singers. I classify them because I do not think comic-opera singers are actresses."
"Rot!" said Williard, crossing his legs and eying with pleasure the contours of her face. "Jolly rot!"
"You mustn't say 'jolly' in this country; it's English, and they'll be accusing you of it."
"Well, bally rot; how will that go?"
"That isn't very pretty, but it will pass. Now, to proceed. They say that your private life is profligate."
"Oh, come now, Betty!" laughing diffidently.
"They say that you gamble at poker and win and lose huge sums."