"You are blushing," said Betty. "I do believe that you know something. What is it?"
She turned a coaxing face to his, being one of those distracting feminine creatures who have a thousand caresses distinctively their own. Her touch was different to the touch of other girls—more delicate, more subtle—an appeal to the finer, not the grosser side.
"What do you know?" she murmured.
"I c-can't tell you," Mark began bravely, and then ended with a feeble—"m-m-much."
"Boys never can tell much," said Betty disdainfully. "Go on."
"Your m-m-mother ran away."
"Is that all? Why I know more than you. Yes; she ran away. I can't think why she did, because father was so handsome. I often look at his miniature; and he must have been the most fascinating man that ever lived. Uncle calls him sometimes that 'rascal Fred.' Now what does he mean by that?"
"Betty," said Mark desperately, "this talk is too b-b-beyondy for me."
She paid no attention whatsoever.
"I spoke to Lanky about it," she continued gravely. "She was nicer than I had ever seen her. 'Betty,' she said, 'remember that it is not for you to judge your parents. They may not have had your advantages.' Well, that made me think a bit, and then I hoped their sins would not be visited on me."