never knew how
things would turn out, consequently, it was as well to conduct one's
self at the outset with the discreet forethought of a man in the
presence of an enemy. He did not know how things would turn out in
Betty's case, and it was a little confusing to find one's self watching
her with a sense of excitement. He would have preferred to be cool--to
be cold--and he realised that he could not keep his eyes off her.

"I remember, with regret," he said to her later in the evening, "that
when you were a child we were enemies."

"I am afraid we were," was Betty's impartial answer.

"I am sure it was my fault," he said. "Pray forget it. Since you have
accomplished such wonders, will you not, in the morning, take me about
the place and explain to me how it has been done?"

When Betty went to her room she dismissed her maid as soon as possible,
and sat for some time alone and waiting. She had had no opportunity to
speak to Rosy in private, and she was sure she would come to her. In the
course of half an hour she heard a knock at the door.

Yes, it was Rosy, and her newly-born colour had fled and left her
looking dragged again. She came forward and dropped into a low chair
near Betty, letting her face fall into her hands.

"I'm very sorry, Betty," she half whispered, "but it is no use."

"What is no use?" Betty asked.

"Nothing is any use. All these years have made me such a coward. I
suppose I always was a coward, but in the old days there never was
anything to be afraid of."

"What are you most afraid of now?"

"I don't know. That is the worst. I am afraid of HIM--just of
himself--of the look in his eyes--of what he may be planning quietly. My
strength dies away when he comes near me."

"What has he said to you?" she asked.

"He came into my dressing-room and sat and talked. He looked about from
one thing to another and pretended to admire it all and congratulated
me. But though he did not sneer at what he saw, his eyes were sneering
at me. He talked about you. He said that you were a very clever woman. I
don't know how he manages to imply that a very clever woman is something
cunning and debased--but it means that when he says it. It seems to
insinuate things which make one grow hot all over."

She put out a hand and caught one of Betty's.

"Betty, Betty," she implored. "Don't make him angry. Don't."

"I am not going to begin by making him angry," Betty said. "And I do not
think he will try to make me