“What a blessing there is a moon!” she said, as they turned back toward the hotel. “I can hardly wait for to-night. Where do you suppose the Nixons are? and that poor little Miss Maynard? If Mr. Derwent is making her write his letters instead of coming out here, I think it’s a perfect shame.” “Sh! sh! Madama,” said Irving. “Let everybody be innocent until he’s proved guilty. Go into the house now and lie down, and let the world go wrong for a little while.” “I can’t quite make Miss Maynard out, Irving. I tried to talk with her a number of times on our drive this afternoon, because I must say Mrs. Nixon is so very quiet I feel sorry for the girl; but she always was abstracted, and every time I spoke to her she seemed to have to bring her thoughts back from somewhere.” “From _him_, perhaps,” suggested Irving. “Well, perhaps so. I never thought of that.” Mrs. Bruce shook her head. “Deliver me from sightseeing with a girl who is in love!” Irving smiled. “I know I’m never coming to a place like this unless _she_ is here, too.” “Oh, Irving, don’t! That awful time will have to come, I suppose, but don’t ruin this lucid interval by talking about it.” The young man seldom indulged in any covert interchange with Betsy, but now his eyes sparkled with fun as he caught his old friend’s eye. “Such a mother-in-law as you will make, Madama!” he exclaimed devoutly. “That depends,” returned Mrs. Bruce complacently. “If you let me pass upon the girl before you commit yourself, I shall do my best.” “What pretty hair you must have had when you were twenty,” said Irving irrelevantly, after a pause, regarding the fair head at his shoulder, for Mrs. Bruce was carrying her hat in her hand. “I don’t care for that left-handed compliment at all,” she replied with spirit. “It’s pretty now.” “It is, for a fact; but wasn’t it still lighter, more golden, when you were twenty?” “Yes, it was perfectly lovely,” she returned. “The years play us all sorts of mean tricks, but one of the meanest is darkening one’s hair. It was lovely at the time I was married; but at that time I suppose you didn’t care whether I wore hair or corn-silk!” “Corn-silk,” repeated Irving abstractedly. “That’s what it’s like. Corn-silk.” “It isn’t, you flatterer,” returned Mrs. Bruce, with a little conscious laugh; and she gave a triumphant side-glance at Betsy, who kept eyes ahead, fearing every moment that her mistress’s complaisance would receive a shock in the comprehension of Irving’s drift. He understood the meaning of a swift glance suddenly sent him by Miss Foster, and began to whistle, softly. As they neared the hotel he spoke. “Come to my room for a minute, Betsy, please. I need some sewing up, and I’ll give it to you so you can take it over and sit by Mrs. Bruce to see that she obeys my order to take a nap.”