"You gave the cue. Salvador was the greatest name I could think of——"
"You know something of dancing, then?"
"Very little. I have heard he had an accident or something that affected his career."
"Yes; it turned his head. He was to have married me, but, like all men, he was ungrateful. He changed—changed quite suddenly."
"How so?"
"I nursed him night and day. He had no mother, no sister, and I thought I could be all the world to him. Little girls are romantic, and he was too ill to know. Before he recovered consciousness I sent an old woman to attend him; but one fine day, when well enough, he bolted."
"Where?"
"Lord knows!" (Betty's language was not Johnsonian.) "Do you think I was going to crawl after him and grovel——?"
"There is no grovelling where love levels."
"But it didn't level," she said, angrily, as though the reproach stung—"it didn't level. I would have chucked my whole future for him: I would now, while he.... O, don't talk of it," she exclaimed huskily, whisking the back of her hand across her eyes: "I tell myself it was all for the best."