room. He didn't believe in the first, but he could
still feel the shape of her slender fingers crushed against his. The
greater her pain, the greater her knowledge of his determination and
desire.

"Guess I'll send Mrs. Sinclair upstairs," Blodgett said, gropingly.

He hurried out of the room. Betty rose.

"I suppose I ought to go."

"Nonsense," George objected. "She isn't the sort to come down ill all at
once."

He followed Betty to the hall, however. Mrs. Sinclair was halfway up the
stairs. Blodgett had gone on, always pandering, George reflected, to his
guests.

"I'll wait here," Betty said to Mrs. Sinclair. "I mean, if anything
should be wrong, if Sylvia should want me."

Mrs. Sinclair nodded, disappearing in the upper hall.

Finally George faced the moment he had avoided with a persistent
longing. For the first time since the night of his confession he was
quite alone with Betty. He tried not to picture her swaying away from
him in a moonlight scented with flowers; but he couldn't help hearing
her frightened voice: "Don't say anything more now," and he experienced
again her hand's delightful and bewitching fragility. Why had his
confession startled? What had it portended for her?

He sighed. There was no point asking such questions, no reason for
avoiding such dangerous moments now; too many factors had assumed new
shapes. The long separation had certainly not been without its effect on
Betty, and hadn't he recently seen her absorbed by Lambert? Hadn't she
just now scolded him with a clear appreciation of his shortcomings? In
the old days she had unconsciously offered him a pleasurable temptation,
and he had been afraid of yielding to it because of its effect on his
aim. Sylvia just now had tried to convince him that his aim was
permanently turned aside. He knew with a hard strength of will that it
wasn't. Nothing could tempt him from his path now--even Betty's
kindness.

"Betty--have you heard anything of her getting married?"

She glanced at him, surprised.

"Who? Sylvia?"

He nodded.

"Only," she answered, "the rumours one always hears about a very popular
girl. Why, George?"

"The rumours make one wonder. Nothing comes of them," he said, sorry he
had spoken, seeking a safe withdrawal. "You know there's principally one
about you. It persists."

There was a curious light in her eyes, reminiscent of something he had
seen there the night of his confession.

"You've just remarked," she lau