“Are you unwilling to answer them?”
“Such personal questions as that last one—yes.”
“Why?”
“You have no right to ask it.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Boatwright considered. “Hmm!” She controlled her temper and framed her next remark with care. This slip of a girl was unexpectedly in fiber like Griggsby Doane. There was no weakness in her quiet resistance, no yielding. Perhaps she was strong, after all. Though she looked soft enough; gentle like her mother. Perhaps, even, she was a person, of herself. This was a new thought. Mrs. Boatwright drew a parallelogram, then painstakingly shaded the lines.
“We mustn't misunderstand each other, Betty,” she said. “In your father's absence, I am responsible for you. This man has appeared rather mysteriously. His business is not clear. The tao-tai asked Mr. Boatwright to look him up, for it seems he hasn't even an interpreter. He has just been here. They've gone for an audience with the provincial judge. Mr. Boatwright has asked him to come back here for tiffin. Which was rather impulsive, I'm afraid....” She paused; started outlining an octagon. “I may as well come out with it. Mr. Boatwright told me a little of what happened last evening—”
“Of what happened But nothing—”
“If you please! Mr. Boatwright is not a particularly observant man in these matters, but he couldn't help seeing that there is something between you and this Mr. Brachey.... Now, since you see what is in my mind, will you tell me why he is here?”
During this speech Betty stopped fingering the crimson fringe. She stood motionless, holding the portfolio still against her side. A slow color crept into her cheeks. She wouldn't, or couldn't, speak.
“Very well, if you won't answer that question, will you at least tell me something of what you do know about him?”