ith colour. She half closed her eyes.

"What, George?"

"That the moon is made of honey. I'm really grateful to Lambert for
these few minutes. Don't expect many more. I can't see you go without a
little jealousy, for there have been times when I've wanted you
abominably, Betty."

They had reached the end of the verandah and paused there in a light
that barely disclosed her wondering smile; her wistful, reminiscent
expression.

"It's funny," she said with a little catch in her voice, "to look back
on two children. I suppose I felt about the great George Morton as most
girls did."

"You flatter me," he said. "Just what do you mean?"

"It's rather tearful one can laugh about such things," she answered. "So
long ago! The great athlete's become a soldier!"

"The stable boy's become a slave," he laughed. "Oh, no. Most girls
couldn't feel much sentiment about that kind of greatness."

"Hush!" she whispered. "You know the night you told me all that I
thought it was a preliminary to your confessing how abominably you
wanted me."

"Now, really, Betty----"

"Quite true, George."

"And you ran away."

"And you," she said with a little laugh, "didn't follow."

"Maybe I was afraid of the dragons in the castle. If I'd followed----?"

"We'd have made the dragons angels."

Beneath their jesting he was aware of pain in his heart, in her eyes; a
perception of lost chances, chances that never could have been captured.
One couldn't have everything. She had Lambert. He had nothing. But he
might have had Betty.

He stooped and pressed his lips to her forehead.

"That's as near as I shall ever come," he thought, sorrowfully,
wondering, against his will, if it were true.

"It's to wish you and Lambert happiness," he said aloud.

She raised her fingers to her forehead and let them linger there
thoughtfully. She sighed, straightened, spoke.

"I'm no longer a sentimental girl, but the admiration has survived,
grown, George. Never forget that."

"And the kindness?" he asked.

"Of course," she said. "Why should that ever go?"

But he shook his head.

"All the kindness must be for Lambert. You wouldn't give by halves.
When, Betty?"

"Let us walk back. I've left him an extraordinarily long time."

"When?" he repeated.

"I don't know," she answered. "After the war, if he comes home. Of
course, he wants it before. Lambert hurries one so."

"It's the war," he said, gravely, "that hurries one."

III

"I've worme