So he told her the whole story just as we know it, dear, long-suffering reader, and she listened very attentively and looked bewitchingly sympathetic with the firelight on her face; and Phillip warmed to his narrative and did it full justice. Yet when he had finished Betty’s face became terribly severe.
“And pray what right,” she demanded, “had you to think we wouldn’t make you just as welcome even if you were poor? A fine opinion you must have formed of us! When, I should like to know, has any of us given you the right to—to think such things about us?”
“Never,” he replied earnestly. “I was all wrong, Betty; I see that now. But, don’t you see, Betty, at first—I didn’t know! It was so sudden and unexpected. I’d never been poor before. It was so kind of strange; and some people do care, you know!”
“They’re not nice people, then,” answered Betty stoutly. “Anyhow, you might have known that I—— And after I had sent you that photograph, Phil!”
“I’m mighty sorry, Betty,” he said contritely. “I won’t do it again—ever!”
“I should hope not!” After a silence she said: “I’m sorry you didn’t like it—the photograph, I mean.”
“Like it! I did like it, Betty! I—I worshiped it!”
“Oh!”
“I—I carried it in my pocket for days and days!”