“I suppose nothing that I can say will pierce through your self-conceit; but I am willing to have any explanation you have to offer. You think you’ve outwitted everybody, and you’ve succeeded in getting your own way; but it’s nothing to be proud of, Betsy—and old age will be coming upon you, and you’ll think of that money a good many times, I can tell you.” She paused again, and looking up found Betsy’s grave eyes following her. There was another short silence, then Betsy spoke. “Mrs. Bruce, when you are thinkin’ this evenin’ over, as you will, there’s just one thing I’ll ask you to remember. It’s an old sayin’ out o’ the far east: ‘Of the unspoken word you are master. The spoken word is master o’ you.’ Good-night.” With this Betsy walked out of the room without one backward look, and Mrs. Bruce stood, baffled, and trembling with her own excitement. Alone, she sank on the divan with her face buried in the pillows. It was quite within the range of possibility that at this moment Irving was dancing with Rosalie Vincent, and did not even observe her own absence from the room. She sobbed, stifling the sound in the pillows lest Betsy should hear and return to her assistance, believing her to be repentant. It was like Betsy to refuse to answer her; to treat her like a child; to throw upon her, by her manner, the blame of all that occurred. It was infuriating; unbearable. Her breath came in spasms, and she fought for her self-control. CHAPTER XXV WHITE SWEET PEAS CAPTAIN SALTER, in his five years of widowhood, had fallen into habits that varied but little from day to day. He cooked his own breakfast, and was off to his boat, or to the long shed where in winter he built them for other people, before Mrs. Bachelder set foot within his doors. This Sabbath morning he rose, shaved, and made his customary demi-toilet, then went out to the stove and set the kettle to boil. He lingered for a minute, smiling, before the Yellowstone postal-cards, his thoughts busy with the events of the evening before. He held an imaginary reel in his hands and began slowly winding the invisible line. “Take your time, Miss Betsy,” he hummed. His cottage stood on a corner of land, facing out to sea. Rocks were to the left of it, a stony beach to the right. His boat-house was in sight. A flower-garden was in front, with a path that ran down between the beds. Many a summer visitor had admired the position of the little white house, and tried to tempt Hiram to part with it; but his grandfather had built it, and the captain’s invariable reply to would-be purchasers was: “I haven’t come to that, yet.” By habit he now moved to the window to note the sea’s mood. Some strange object caught his eye. His head went forward, his eyes seemed to bulge. A woman was seated on the rustic bench outside. Her back was toward him as she watched the rolling waves. She was dressed in dark brown, with hat and veil; and a traveling-bag reposed on the seat beside her.