“Well, I must fly, or the post will be going without my despatches. How wild Annie Carr will be! I shall write to her at once. I shall write to tell her that I am going to marry a handsome, rich young officer, who adores me, and is counting the very seconds till I join him in India! Poor Annie, her day is over. I feel as if my sun were just rising,” and she passed into the hall singing. Who can picture Betty--let them picture her, as she stood alone in the middle of the room, with pale dry lips, and a face like marble. Suddenly she sat down, and laid her arms on the table, and leant her throbbing head on them. All she wanted was time to think, to pull herself together, to try and understand what it meant; no tear trickled down her face--a face miserable and quivering with anguish. What did it all mean? What _did_ it mean? It meant that George Holroyd, “Gentleman George” as Fred Moore said he was called, her _preux chevalier_, her model of all that was unselfish, and noble, and manly, had proved to be a very poor specimen of chivalry after all. He had merely been amusing himself with her, an ignorant, simple-minded little country chit! It was true that he had not told his love in so many words, his proposal at the garden gate had been a parable, but had that bangle no meaning? Nor a little bunch of forget-me-nots on a Christmas card, nor the kiss he had imprinted on her hand, nor the look in his eyes when they had parted? Had not irrepressible, chattering Cuckoo, plainly informed her that she was sure George worshipped the ground she stood on, and although she had feebly silenced her, Cuckoo had persisted in declaring that he had removed her photograph from the Bridgetstown album; and--and--and it all meant _nothing_. She was only a stupid, silly little country girl, and he had been in love with her cousin all along. It was to her he wrote constantly, she had evidently expected this summons to join him. Pretty, fascinating, well-dressed Belle! and yet how often had he quitted Belle to speak to her? To dwell on these cherished memories was folly now; he was going to marry Belle, and she must stifle her feelings and seem _glad_. Her brief dream of happiness was over, was gone for ever; before her stretched the old monotonous existence, with nothing but a blank, hopeless future. All the light had gone out of her life--quenched in a moment by a careless hand. Suddenly she heard Belle’s step approaching, and what a light and happy contrast, to her usual dragging heavy gait. “What!” she cried, “not gone yet! Oh, do hurry and send off the telegram. George said he would expect it so anxiously, and moments to _you_ are hours to him! I want you to get me five shillings’ worth of stamps. How queer and strange you look; certainly such sudden news _is_ stunning. Here is your hat, you will do very well; come, be off.”