, and tell her what love
was. But he didn't dare--he couldn't, after what he had said to her. And
still she wept over her broken toys--the music--the singing--for they
had mattered the most. Very childlike she seemed, very tender and
pathetic.

"Beth," he said at last, touching her fingers gently. "Nothing is
changed, Beth. It can't be changed, dear. We've got to go on. It means
so much to--to us both."

But she paid no attention to the touch of his fingers and turned away,
leaving the music at her feet, an act in itself significant.

"Let me go home. Please. Alone. I--I've got to think."

She did not look at him, but Peter obeyed her. There was nothing else
to do. There was something in the clear depths of her eyes that had
daunted him. And he had meant her harm. Had he? He didn't know. He
passed his hand slowly across his eyes and then stood watching her until
she had disappeared among the trees. When she had gone he picked up the
torn music. It was Massenet's "Elegie."

O doux printemps d'autrefois....
Tout est fletrie.

The lines of the torn pieces came together. Spring withered! The joyous
songs of birds--silenced! Beth's song? He smiled. No, that couldn't be.
He folded the music up and strode off slowly, muttering to himself.

CHAPTER XIV

TWO LETTERS

Peter passed a troublous evening and night--a night of self-revelations.
Never that he could remember had he so deeply felt the sting of
conscience. He, the Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, in love with this
little rustic? Impossible! It was the real Peter, tired of the sham and
make-believe of self-restraint and virtue, who had merely kissed a
country girl. He was no anchorite, no saint. Why had he tied himself to
such a duty from a motive of silly sentimentalism?

He winced at the word. Was it that? Sentimentalism. He had shown her the
best side of him--shown it persistently, rather proud of his capacity
for self-control, which had ridden even with his temptations. Why should
it matter so much to him what this girl thought of him? What had he said
to her? Nothing much that he hadn't said to other women. It was the fact
that he had said it to Beth that made the difference. The things one
might say to other women meant something different to Beth--the things
one might do.... He had been a fool and lost his head, handled her
roughly, spoken to her wildly, words only intended for gentle moods,
softer purposes. Shrewd little Beth, whose wide