“Well, whose fault is it, I should like to know. She did have some talent. I tried to have it cultivated, but evidently she was too superficial. People find their level. You can’t help it.” Betsy gave Irving such a repressive look that he swallowed some remark which had reached the end of his tongue. Then, again opening his lips, he gave Mrs. Bruce a _résumé_ of what had happened to her protégée since her befriending of the girl. “Well, why shouldn’t she have married Mrs. Pogram’s brother?” she returned carelessly. “He is a cad, I tell you,” returned Irving, manfully repressing his rising wrath. “Well,” Mrs. Bruce shrugged her shoulders, “the girl is a beggar. She can’t choose.” The light that suddenly sparkled in Irving’s eyes made Betsy hasten to speak. “You said when we were talkin’ about it that time, that it was a pity for girls who had those talents to get married. I guess Rosalie feels herself she has some talent.” “Yes,” returned Mrs. Bruce, busily eating, and unconscious of the storm brewing beside her, “a talent for,” she laughed,—“heaving. She’s just a pretty doll, and it is amazing what fools a pretty face will make of men of all types and ages.” Mrs. Bruce laughed gleefully. “I shan’t forget Mrs. Nixon’s eyes when she saw her brother sitting on the grass and apparently making love to the girl. Now, take Miss Maynard, there’s strength and poise in the very lift of her head.” Mrs. Bruce looked across at the Nixon table approvingly. “I do hope, Irving, you will take a little pains to become acquainted with Miss Maynard. I understand the girl’s reserve now and her abstraction. I asked Robert if he and his mother had known about it, and he said they had not; but I’m not so sure about _him_;”—the speaker shook her head astutely;—“he has been very civil to the girl ever since we started.” “Heavens! is that a sign?” exclaimed Irving testily. Mrs. Bruce looked around at him and raised her eyebrows. “Why not, cross-patch? He is his mother’s son, and she has nearly refrigerated her poor companion. I’ve been quite nice to her.” Mrs. Bruce returned to her omelet complacently. “It will make things pleasant now. Everybody is looking forward so to seeing the colored lights thrown on the geyser to-night. I think it would be nice of you, Irving, to take Miss Maynard out to see it. There’s a moon, too.” “It would be very nice of me,” returned the young man savagely. “Colored lights on the geyser! I wonder if they paint lilies out here!” He pushed his chair back from the table. “Will you and Betsy excuse me, Madama;” and without further apology Irving left the table and went out to the office, where on four sides of the great chimney were blazing generous open fires, that could roast an ox. Mrs. Bruce turned to her companion. “What has put Mr. Irving out of sorts?” she asked. Betsy ate very busily. “’Tain’t best to notice his moods, Mrs. Bruce. You know that was always the best way to treat him.”