Irving’s eyes shone. “Mrs. Nixon,” said he to that lady, “may I take you over to speak to Miss Vincent? She is in strange surroundings and will appreciate it.” “Well,” replied Mrs. Nixon with a surprised and regal lift of the head, “the girl certainly does charming work. I’m quite willing to tell her so.” She rose and took Irving’s offered arm, and they moved away. Mrs. Bruce held her lip between her teeth; her face burned, her eyes filled with tears of anger and mortification. “Great Scott!” ejaculated Robert, still winking hard, “that girl made my nose tingle. She has one of these silly voices, you know, that go way in and knock on your heart, and if you try to steel yourself, it just opens the door and walks in any way. Come on, let’s all three go over and tell her she’s a dandy. Look at ’em crowd around her! She’s like a drop of honey in fly-time.” Mrs. Bruce and Helen rose undecidedly. “Say, look at Uncle Henry!” exclaimed Robert with a joyous squeak. “Isn’t he Johnny-on-the-spot though? Those chaps aren’t going to have it all their own way.” Mrs. Bruce pressed her handkerchief to her lips, for she too saw Mr. Derwent move a little in advance of the other guests, and after holding Rosalie’s hand a moment in congratulation, draw it within his arm and stand beside her while the kindly, effusive crowd drew near. Helen Maynard shrugged her shoulders. “That settles it, Mrs. Bruce,” she said. “Mr. Derwent has evidently decided to make her a success. Very nice for her, isn’t it? We may as well go and speak to her, I suppose.” Mrs. Bruce moved with them in silence. Robert glanced at her with comprehension. “Darn Brute,” he thought. “Why did he want to go and get mother in wrong here!” To his simple mind it was difficult to grasp the mental processes of his hostess; but he saw her emotion. “I’ll chance a jolly, anyway,” he reflected. “You must feel like a lady Columbus,” he said to Mrs. Bruce, with an admiring air. “Oh, no, Nixie,” she rejoined. “I feel like a cipher. Nothing more.” In his whole life Irving had never slighted her before. For that girl’s sake he had not hesitated to punish her. This was Betsy’s doing,—all her doing. So the waves of heat and hurt passed over her as she crossed the room on Nixie’s arm, seeing, ahead of her, Irving devotedly talking to Mrs. Nixon as they moved toward the star of the evening. CHAPTER XXIII THE DANCE WITH the approval of her audience ringing in her ears, and Mr. Derwent’s kindly presence and support to bridge over the awkward first moments that assail the drawing-room entertainer when her work is done, Rosalie might scarcely have been able to keep her slender white slippers touching earth but for an anchor, a ball and chain, which Betsy had in all kindness attached to her on the last evening they spent together. They had sat on the edge of the bed in their boarding-house, talking, and Betsy plunged boldly into a subject that lay heavy on her heart.