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“Didn’t you expect me?” he said.

She held out a hand that trembled.

“Yes, I–I knew you would come; only, you see, I hardly thought you would get here so soon.”

“But you meant me to come?” he said.

His hand held hers closely, warmly, reassuringly. He looked into her face.

For a few seconds she evaded the look with a shyness beyond her control; then resolutely she mastered herself and met his eyes.

“Yes, I meant you to come. I am glad you are back. I–” She broke off suddenly, gazing at him in consternation. “Monty,” she exclaimed, “you never told me you had been ill!”

He smiled at that, and her agitation began to subside.

“I am well again, Betty,” he said.

“Oh, but you don’t look it,” she protested. “You look–you look as if you had suffered–horribly. Have you?”

He passed the question by. “At least, I have managed to come back again,” he said, “as I promised.”

“I–I am thankful to see you again,” she faltered her shyness returning upon her. “I’ve been–desperately anxious.”

“On my account?” said Herne.

She bent her head. “Yes.”

“Lest I shouldn’t come back?”

“Yes,” she said again.

“But I told you I should,” He was still holding her hand, trying to read her downcast face.

“Oh, I knew you would if you could,” said Betty. “Only–I couldn’t help thinking–of what you said about–about sacrificing substance to–shadow. It–was very wrong of me to send you.”

She spoke unevenly, with obvious effort. She seemed determined that he should not have that glimpse into her soul which he so evidently desired.

“My dear Betty,” he said, “I went on my own account as much as on yours. I think you forget that. Or are you remembering–and regretting–it?”

She had begun to tremble. He laid a steadying hand upon her shoulder.

“No,” she said faintly. Then swiftly, impulsively, she raised her face. “Major Herne, I–I want to tell you something–before you say any more.”

“What is it, Betty?” he said.

“Just this,” she made answer, speaking very quickly. “I–I am not good enough for you. I haven’t been–straight with you. I’ve been realizing it more and more ever since you went away. I–I’m quite despicable. I’ve been miserable about it–wretched–all the time you have been away.”

Herne’s face changed. A certain grimness came into it.

“But, my dear girl,” he said, “you never pretended to be in love with me.”

She drew a sharp breath of distress.

“I know,” she said. “I know. And I let you go to that dreadful place, though I knew–before you went–that, whatever happened, it could make no difference to me. But I hadn’t the courage to tell you the truth. After what passed between us that night, I felt–I couldn’t. And so–and so–I let you go, even though I knew I was deceiving you. Oh, do forgive me if you can! I’ve had my punishment. I have been nearly mad with anxiety lest any harm should come to you.”

“I suppose I ought to be grateful for that,” Herne said. He still looked grim, but there was no anger about him. He had taken his hand from her shoulder, but he still held her trembling fingers in his quiet grasp. “Don’t fret!” he said. “Where’s the use? I shall get over it somehow. If you are quite sure you know your own mind, there is no more to be said.” He spoke with no shadow of emotion. His eyes looked into hers with absolute steadiness. He even, after a moment, very faintly smiled. “Except good-bye!” he said. “And perhaps the sooner I say that the better.”

But at this point Betty broke in upon him breathlessly, almost incoherently.

“Major Herne, I–I don’t understand. You–you can say good-bye, of course–if you wish. But–it will be by your own choice if you do.”

“What?” he said.

She snatched her hand suddenly from him.

“I suppose you mean to punish me, to make me pay for my–idiocy. You–you think–“

“I think that either you or I must be mad,” said Herne.

“Then it’s you!” flung back Betty half hysterically. “To imagine for one moment that I–that I meant–that!”