“Oh, you are just the person to drive an electric,” said Robert, his eyes twinkling as Mrs. Bruce unconsciously raised herself to a sitting posture among the pillows. “You’ll spin down to the bank every afternoon and bring Brute home.” “I really do think you’re right, Nixie,” returned his hostess plaintively. “I have a very cool head, and it’s all nonsense that I couldn’t drive an electric even in the Boston cowpaths, while in the Parks—” “Oh, my dear Mrs. Bruce, never think that Brute will accompany you there!” “Why not?” The question had all the usual crispness. “Such a stately method of locomotion will not commend itself for his sportive hours. What car does he think of getting?” The question opened a flood-gate; and for the next fifteen minutes, talk of pros and cons regarding different high-class motors snapped with an ever-increasing vivacity in the erstwhile chamber of suffering. Once Betsy came near the door and listened. “But _that_ car doesn’t have to be cranked,” she heard her mistress declare in bright tones. She nodded with satisfaction and ran upstairs to put her belongings in a suit-case. CHAPTER XX BETSY’S APPEAL TRUE to her promise, Betsy stayed but two days in Boston, and Mrs. Bruce, having had a very good time in her absence, was graciously pleased to let bygones be bygones when she returned. “Was your shopping successful?” she asked. “Yes, we did real well,” was the reply. “I didn’t know there was so many good ready-made things folks could get.” Mrs. Bruce smiled leniently. “Rather awful things,” she said, “but I suppose they did very well for your friend from the country.” “Yes, she’ll look real good in ’em after she’s fitted to a few alterations. Miss Maynard’s been gettin’ some ready-made ones.” “She has?” ejaculated Mrs. Bruce with interest. “Yes; they showed ’em to me, some of ’em, when I went to Mrs. Nixon’s; and they’re elegant.” “Oh, yes; with Miss Maynard’s pocket-book, one can find very good things; and since they’re coming here for the rest of the season, she doesn’t need much. You say Mrs. Nixon wired for the rooms?” “Yes, right off; and they think they’ll get here Saturday.” That evening Irving Bruce, descrying Betsy stooping over her sweet-pea bed, joined her. “How is Miss Vincent?” he inquired. Betsy rose and regarded him. “Set a spell,” he continued, drawing her down upon a garden-seat. “I haven’t got anything to tell you, Mr. Irving.” “Nonsense,” remarked the young man easily. “Don’t you suppose I know that you went to town to get clothes for somebody? Mrs. Bruce told me that. Of course it was Rosalie. Whose gift? Yours or Mr. Derwent’s?” “Mr. Derwent’s,” responded Betsy after a reluctant pause. “I hope they are proper for the seashore.” “They’re real simple, and pretty, and good; just like her.” “Tell me what you bought.” Irving brought his sun-burned face close to Betsy’s and hung his hand over the back of the seat close to her shoulder.