Something of the old tender quality had crept into his voice. Once more they were alone in the shadowy room--but outside now was the darkness of the night instead of the darkness of the storm. Perhaps some memory of her first impulsive response to his wooing came to him as he took both of her hands in his. "There's some barrier between us of late," he said. "I'm a plain blunt man, and I don't know what I may have said or done. Have I hurt you in any way, child?" Here was Fate bringing opportunity to her. This was the moment for revelation, confession. But she could not tell him. She stood before him with bent head. "You haven't hurt me, but there is something I should like to say to you. May I write it--Anthony?" He put a finger under her chin and turned her face up to him. "Are you afraid of me--dear?" "Oh, no----" "Then tell me now----" "Please--no." For a moment he studied her drooping face, then he patted her on the cheek. "Write it if you must--but you're making me feel like an awful bear, Bettina." He sighed and turned away. She put out her hand as if to stop him, but drew it back. Then she followed him into the hall, and stood watching him, with the light from the old lantern again making a halo of her fair hair. But this time she did not go down to him in the darkness. The spell was upon her of a pair of mocking eyes, and of a voice which had sung with her celestial harmonies. CHAPTER XIX HER FATHER'S RING It was late the next night before Bettina found time to write a letter to Anthony. The town clock had struck ten, and Miss Matthews was asleep in the inner room. As Bettina settled herself at her desk there came through the open window the fragrance of the sea--the night was very still; she could hear across the harbor the beat of the music in the yacht club ballroom, and there was the tinkle of a mandolin on some anchored boat. She found it difficult to put on paper the things which she decided must be said. Striving to explain she tore up sheet after sheet, then, growing restless at her repeated failure, she rose from her desk and crossed the room to the cabinet in the corner. In one of the drawers was a packet of letters from her mother. They were exquisite in phrasing and in sentiment. She wondered if she might not borrow from them something of their grace. As she opened the drawer, her eyes fell on the little carved box. Mechanically she reached for it, and touched the spring. Then she stood staring down at her father's ring! The words which she had once said to Diana echoed insistently in her ears: "People who can love many times, who can go from one person to another, aren't worth thinking about." Why--she was like her father! He had loved once, and then he had loved again--and he had broken her mother's heart!