d won he had applied himself to get with hardness, cold
calculation, an indomitable will. He had kept his eyes open. He had used
everybody, everything, to help him climb toward Sylvia out of the valley
of humiliation. The qualities that had brought him all that were good
qualities, worth clinging to. As he had climbed he would continue in
spite of Bailly or Allen or Betty. But when he thought of Betty he had
to fight the tears from his own eyes.

A little while before his graduation he went to her, knowing he must do
something to make her less kind, to destroy the impression she gave him
of one who, like Mrs. Bailly, always thought of him at his best.

He walked alone through a bland moonlight scented with honeysuckle from
the hedges. His heart beat as it had that day four years ago when he had
unintentionally let Sylvia know his presumptuous craving.

Two white figures strolled in front of the house. He went up, striving
to overcome the absurd reluctance in his heart. It wasn't simple to
destroy a thing as beautiful as this friendship. Betty paused and
turned, drawing her mother around.

"I thought you'd quite forgotten us, George."

Nor did he want to kill the welcome in her voice.

"You're leaving Princeton very soon," Mrs. Alston said. "I'm glad you've
come. Of course, it isn't to say good-bye."

He wondered if she didn't long for a parting to be broken only by
occasional meetings in town. He wondered if she didn't fear for Betty.
If there had been no Sylvia, if he had dared abandon the hard things and
ask for Betty, this imperious woman would have put plenty of searching
questions. But, he reflected, if it hadn't been for Sylvia he never
would have come so far, never would have come to Betty. Every
consideration held him on his course.

He feared that Mrs. Alston, in her narrow, careful manner, wouldn't give
him an opportunity to speak to Betty alone. He was glad when they went
in and found Mr. Alston, who liked and admired him. When he left there
must come a chance. As he said good-night, indeed, Betty followed him to
the hall, and he whispered, so that the servant couldn't hear:

"Betty, I've a confession. Won't you walk toward the gate with me?"

The colour entered her white face as she turned and called to her
mother:

"I'll walk to the gate with George."

From the room he fancied a rustling, irritated acknowledgment.

But she came, throwing a transparent scarf over her tawny hair, and they
were