“Then have you any plan, Clever Betsy?” he persisted. “’Tisn’t enough just to be fond of her and—and _mope_.” “You sassy boy!” exclaimed Betsy, concealing her inward exultation that Rosalie had a friend at court, albeit a dangerous one. “You mind your business and I’ll mind mine; and it wasn’t ever to mope.” “Good for you, you old dear! I know you’ll do something for that—that wood-nymph.” “Irving Bruce, give me your mendin’. Do you suppose there’ll be any naps till I get back?” “Tell her I had to hunt for it.” “I won’t lie for you or anybody else.” “I wouldn’t have you. It’s the absolute truth.” The speaker strode over to where his suit-case lay open on the floor. Rummaging through its contents, he fished out a white silk negligée shirt and quickly tore it down the back. Betsy sprang forward and cried out, but the deed was done. He pressed the garment into her arms and opened the door. “That was _sinful_!” she exclaimed, regarding the rent. “Not half so bad as hurting your immortal soul?” He laughed at her long face and pushed her gently out the door. “Remember now,” threateningly, “if you don’t do something, I will. I’m trusting you, Betsy.” “That’s wicked. That’s just wicked,” said Miss Foster to herself, holding up to view the fine garment as she moved down the deserted hall. CHAPTER XIII THE HEIRESS WHEN Robert Nixon ran whistling into the hotel and took the stairs two at a time up to his room, he met his mother just coming in from the upper veranda, where she had had the interview with her brother. “I want to see you, Robert,” she said, so solemnly that he looked amused. “Your tone takes me back to childhood’s unhappy hour,” he returned. “Which is it to be, a spanking or the closet?” “Come into my room a minute,” went on Mrs. Nixon. “I do believe it’s the spanking. Say, mamma, forget it. The geyser’s just going to spout.” “I must speak to you first.” “’Tisn’t fair,” objected the youth, “because you do spout more than once an hour, you know.” But he followed his stately mother into her room, for she looked more imposing than usual, and his curiosity was roused. As soon as she had closed the door she turned to him. “Where is Miss Maynard?” she asked. Her son’s eyebrows and shoulders both jerked upwards. “You can search _me_,” he responded. “Sit down, Robert.” He obeyed the impressive order, and his mother seated herself opposite. “What has that sleek, quiet little mouse been doing?” he asked. “I haven’t seen her since we left the Riverside.” “Robert, I want you to _think_, and I want you to be serious.” “I’ll do my best, but I’m rusty in both lines.” “I want you to tell me how my treatment of Miss Maynard has impressed you.” Robert whistled softly. “Offended, is she? Well, she ought to know that you’re never effusive. I’ve tried to flirt with her a bit, and strike an average.”