George studied her face in the light from the windows as they paced up and down the verandah. There was happiness there in spite of the perplexing doubt with which she glanced from time to time at him. There was no question. Betty's kindness had been taken away from him. He tried to be glad for her, but he was sorry for himself, trying to fancy what his life would have been if he had permitted his aim to be turned aside, if he had yielded to the temptation of an unfailing kindness. It had never been in his nature. Why go back over all that? "One tie's broken," he said, "and another's made. We're no longer the good friends we were, because you haven't told me." Her white cheeks flooded with colour. She half closed her eyes. "What, George?" "That the moon is made of honey. I'm really grateful to Lambert for these few minutes. Don't expect many more. I can't see you go without a little jealousy, for there have been times when I've wanted you abominably, Betty." They had reached the end of the verandah and paused there in a light that barely disclosed her wondering smile; her wistful, reminiscent expression. "It's funny," she said with a little catch in her voice, "to look back on two children. I suppose I felt about the great George Morton as most girls did." "You flatter me," he said. "Just what do you mean?" "It's rather tearful one can laugh about such things," she answered. "So long ago! The great athlete's become a soldier!" "The stable boy's become a slave," he laughed. "Oh, no. Most girls couldn't feel much sentiment about that kind of greatness." "Hush!" she whispered. "You know the night you told me all that I thought it was a preliminary to your confessing how abominably you wanted me." "Now, really, Betty----" "Quite true, George." "And you ran away." "And you," she said with a little laugh, "didn't follow." "Maybe I was afraid of the dragons in the castle. If I'd followed----?" "We'd have made the dragons angels." Beneath their jesting he was aware of pain in his heart, in her eyes; a perception of lost chances, chances that never could have been captured. One couldn't have everything. She had Lambert. He had nothing. But he might have had Betty. He stooped and pressed his lips to her forehead. "That's as near as I shall ever come," he thought, sorrowfully, wondering, against his will, if it were true. "It's to wish you and Lambert happiness," he said aloud. She raised her fingers to her forehead and let them linger there thoughtfully. She sighed, straightened, spoke. "I'm no longer a sentimental girl, but the admiration has survived, grown, George. Never forget that." "And the kindness?" he asked. "Of course," she said. "Why should that ever go?" But he shook his head. "All the kindness must be for Lambert. You wouldn't give by halves. When, Betty?" "Let us walk back. I've left him an extraordinarily long time." "When?" he repeated.