marriage. Where would her desolate heart have
turned for comfort? And he knew her nature well enough to realize
that what Lord Hurdly had to offer might have seemed likely to serve
her as a substitute for happiness. He knew, moreover, that Bettina
had never loved him in the sense in which he had loved her, and this
fact made his judgment gentler.

As he stood there alone, in the great house, strangely empty now that
her rich presence was removed from it, he wished with all his heart
that he had gone to her, and forcing her to look at him with those
candid eyes of hers, had said: "Bettina, tell me the truth. Why did
you do it?" Oh, if he only had!

Then reflection forced upon him the possible answer that he might
have received. She might have coldly resented the impertinence of
such a speech, or she might have given him to understand that what
appeared true was really true--namely, that his cousin's splendid
offer was preferred to his poor one. Yes, he was no doubt a fool to
hold on to his belief in Bettina in face of the obvious facts. The
thing he had to do was to overcome it, and go on with his life and
career quite apart from her.

This would have been the easier to do but for one thing. He had
satisfied himself that Bettina had been unhappy in her marriage to
Lord Hurdly. It was evident that the worldly importance which it had
given her had not sufficed her needs. He knew--her own mother had
avowed it to him--that Bettina was ambitious; but he knew, what the
same source had also revealed, that she had a good and loving heart.
What he felt was that she had been taught by bitter experience the
emptiness of mere worldly gratification, and that poor heart of hers
was breaking in its loneliness.

But then came reason again, and pointed to the hard facts before his
eyes. What a fool he was to go on constructing a romantic theory
out of his own consciousness when Bettina, by definite choice and
decision, had proved herself to be, what he must compel himself to
consider her, both heartless and false!

Fortified by the bitter support of this conception of her, he left
the library, and, for the first time since his return, made the
complete tour of the house. Through most of the apartments he passed
swiftly enough, but in two of them he paused. The first was the long
picture-gallery, where he looked critically at his own boyish
portrait, wondering if Bettina had ever looked at it, and what
feelings it might have arous