She worked very hard, whilst restless, excitable Belle found a number of excellent reasons for doing nothing, and roamed about the house, singing snatches of songs, and waltzes, and talking incessantly of India, herself and George. “It’s a curious thing, Betty,” she remarked one day, as she lolled beside her busy companion, “that, although George was so desperately fond of me, as _you_ know, he never said anything, never even hinted at an offer, or committed himself by word or look; and I am sure I gave him heaps of openings. Do you remember how I used to sing: ‘Si vous n’avez rien à me dire.’” And she laughed a shameless laugh. “I told him over and over again, that it was the dream of my life to see India, and yet he never said one syllable; he did not think it honourable to ask a girl to share a life of poverty. No wonder they call him ‘Gentleman George,’ eh?” “No wonder!” echoed Betty rather faintly. “I am so glad he likes _you_, Bet, he often said so, and always sent you messages in his letters, kind remembrances and that sort of thing. Some day you must come out and pay us a visit. I am certain you would marry well out in India, where girls are scarce; you have such lots of ‘go’ in you, and really your eyes and figure are not so bad. I believe George rather admired you!” “Tell me one thing, Belle,” said the other, shielding with her hand her poor quivering face. “Do you love him very much? I know he is not your first love.” “Pooh!” interrupted the bride-elect, “nor my twenty-first; I had my first love at eleven years of age, a delightful school-boy, who ruined himself in lockets and chocolates for my sake, and now at twenty-nine (though I don’t look it) I have my last, I suppose! I don’t believe in frantic love, such as you read of in books, where girls walk about all night wringing their hands and weeping,”--Betty became scarlet--“and where men--well, now I come to think of it--the men don’t care! they swear they will shoot themselves, and they fall in love with the next pretty face. Love, such as poets rave about, blazes up quickly like straw, and then goes out, and leaves unpleasant ashes; great emotions wear people down, and age them frightfully.” “If you don’t believe in love, what do you believe in?” said Betty, suddenly laying down her work. “I believe in a presentable, gentlemanly husband, with good connections, and a full purse. I believe in gold, incense and freedom. I believe in a delightful life in India, in lots of amusement and going about, I----” “But----” began her listener interrogatively.