He returned to the drawing-room, laughing but irritated.
“Little meddlesome devil,” he said, “talking to me of responsibility! Here’s where I wash my hands of the Eris kid. It’s Betsy’s deal now.”
It was.
Eris, listening to the laughter and music below, lying wide-eyed on her pillow, sat up startled and wider yet of eye when a scurry and flurry of scented skirts, followed by the clash of a swiftly locked door landed Betsy Blythe at her bedside.
She stared at the breathless vision of flushed beauty, too astounded to think of herself and her position.
Down on the bed’s edge dropped Miss Blythe, radiant, cheeks and eyes still brilliant from her victory.
“I’m Betsy Blythe,” she said. “I heard about you. How fine and plucky of you! What a perfectly rotten experience!... Tell me your name, won’t you?”
“Eris Odell,” said the girl mechanically, still under the spell of this sudden brightness which seemed to fill the whole room with rose colour.
“My dear,” said Betsy, “please forgive me for coming in on my head. Mr. Annan tried to prevent me. You mustn’t blame him. But when I heard how plucky you are I simply had to come up and tell you that I’m going to ask my manager to take you on. I haven’t seen our first script. They’re doing the continuity now. But I’m sure there must be something—something, at least, to start you going—so you won’t need to sleep in the park—you poor child——”