But on the night of her illuminating afternoon in the woods with Eduard, Betty appeared to be waiting up for her. She came yawning into Joan's room to watch her friend undress, and established herself sleepily on the foot of the bed. "What a pity you can't wear your hair down all the time, Jo! Men adore hair, don't they? And yours has a regular patina on it, like old bronze." "Not greenish, I hope," laughed Joan. "No--sort of orangish. Dark, with an orange lining." "Betty! It sounds horrible!" "Well, you know very well it isn't.--May Rossiter thinks you are awfully clever to wear it that simple way, too, so straight and plain, when the rest of us stick out like mops. She says you're awfully clever about lots of things--too smart for the likes of us." "Does she?" Joan was a little startled and not quite pleased. She had not intended to give the impression of cleverness. It was out of her present rôle entirely. "I wonder what Mrs. Rossiter meant by that?" "Oh, men, of course," yawned Betty. "You see you've annexed a few of hers, which naturally makes her peevish." "Have I?" murmured Joan. "Who, for instance?" "Well, Uncle Neddy, for one." "Oh! So she _was_ one of his flames, then?" Betty sat up. "You mean to say you didn't know it? One of them! _The_ one, my child! Surely you remember about his broken heart?--the married lady he was recovering from in Washington last year? Well, May's it. Of course I'm not supposed to know, being an _ingénue_--but our Neddy was frightfully gone on her, and she returned it, and the husband she had then got jealous (rather a bounder he was, not one of us, you know), and there was some sort of excitement, and she divorced him. Every one thought to marry Uncle Ned, of course. But instead she upped and married Mr. Rossiter! Joke on Neddy, wasn't it?" Joan's lip curled. "What a romantic love story! Why do you suppose she married that old Mr. Rossiter?" Betty shrugged in a worldly-wise manner. "Awfully rich, my dear. And Neddy isn't." "But they seem friendly enough still, she and Mr. Desmond?" "Oh, of course. Why not? It would be frightfully uncomfortable for the rest of us if they glowered and didn't speak and all that, like quarreling servants. And Uncle Neddy seems to be consoling himself!" She twinkled at Joan. "That evens things up, you see. But,"--she suddenly grew grave--"what do _you_ get out of all this, Joan? You couldn't possibly _like_ seeing so much of Uncle Neddy! He's such a--softy. And such a bore, too, with his art and poetry and stuff." "You mean," smiled Joan, "he's too mature for you, dear." "Too mature for you then, too! You're only a few months older." The other gave an unconscious sigh. "Oh, me--I'm different."