"Look here," he said; "you must tell me the reason of this change in Betty. Now I know you don't care for me, you don't really love me." "No, I don't love you," she said quickly. "Well, then, since you say that, I will answer your question. I tried to win your heart because I wanted to win Betty's!" "What do you mean?" "That Betty is practically you--or was, your echo, in word, deed, thought. Her mind, her heart, followed yours in everything. I loved her, and I knew that if I made you like me very much she must follow you in that feeling as in others. Since you don't love me, I can dare to tell you this." Clarice sat silent. "Are you angry?" he asked. "Go on," she said. "That's all." Again a silence. "It was your fault in a way," Bellairs said awkwardly. "You made Betty your other self. Why did you not let her alone?" "Can a strong nature help impressing itself on others?" "Oh, I don't know. I'm no psychologist. But--you must let Betty alone now," he said. "Suppose I can't. Suppose this sympathy between us has got beyond my control?" "I shall release Betty from this bondage to you," Bellairs said, "my love will--" "You! Your love!" Clarice said. And she burst into a laugh. Bellairs suddenly leaned forward across the table. "I believe you hate me," he exclaimed. She, on her part, leaned forward till her face was near his. "You're right," she whispered; "I do hate you. Now you know what's the matter with Betty." For a moment Bellairs did not understand. "Now--I know--" he repeated. "I don't--Ah!" Comprehension flashed upon him. "You devil," he said--"you she-devil! Curse--curse you!" Clarice laughed again. Bellairs sprang up. "No, no, I won't believe it," he cried. "I can't. The thing's impossible." "Is it? The pendulum of my heart has swung back from love to hate. Betty's is following." "No, no!" "Wait, and you will see. Already she seems to care less for you. You yourself have remarked it." "I have not," he said with violence. "To-morrow she will care less, and so less--less--till she too--hates you." "Never!" "Only wait--and you will know. And now, good-night. I must really write my letter. It is to my mother, and must go by to-morrow's mail." She resumed her writing quietly. Bellairs watched her for a moment. Then he strode out of the room, across the gangway, up the bank. How dark the night was. * * * * * The explanation of Clarice struck Bellairs with a benumbing force. In vain he argued to himself that it was not the true one, that no heart could follow another as she said Betty's followed hers, that no nature could merely for ever echo another's. Some furtive despair lurking in his soul whispered that she had spoken the truth. An appalling sense of utter impotence seized him, as it seizes a man who fights with a shadow. But he resolved to fight. His whole life's happiness hung on the issue.