"But don't you want to see who she is?" Scarborough Square customs were those most familiar to Bettina, and they exacted understanding of doubtful situations. "Don't you want to see what—what she looks like?"
"Why should I? Mr. Thorne knows many people I do not know." I moved toward the corner. "Come on. It's getting late."
"Gentlemen like him don't know girls like her. She lives down here somewhere, and he lives where you used to live. He couldn't be sweet on her, because—because he couldn't." She caught up with me. "He's yours, ain't he, Miss Danny? You'd better tell him—"
I hated myself for looking across the street, but as I hurried on my eyes were following Selwyn and the girl, and when I saw the latter stop and bury her face in her hands, saw Selwyn say something to her, saw him turn in one direction and she in another, I, too, stopped; for a moment was unable to move.
We had reached the corner as Selwyn left the opposite one and came toward us. Head down, as if deeply thinking, he did not look up until close to us. Under the gaslight I waited, not knowing why, and Bettina being behind me, he thought I was alone when presently he saw me.
"Dandridge!" He stared as if stupefied with amazement. Lifting his hat mechanically, he came closer. "What in the name of Heaven are you doing here alone this time of night? Are you losing your mind?"
His entire absence of embarrassment, his usual disapproval of my behavior, his impatient anger, had an unlooked-for effect, and sudden relief and hot joy so surged over me that I laughed, a queer, nervous, choking little laugh.
"I am not alone. It is not yet six, and I have been to see a boy who is what you are not—the head of a house. I mean a house with a family in it. Have you, too, been visiting?"
His face flushed, and frowningly he turned away. "I had business down here. I had to come to it as it could not be brought to me. Where are you going?"
"Home."