His eyes met hers in the green shadow, and she was satisfied because he had understood that this was her reply to his appeal to her "not to avoid him in the little time there was left." Both were gay as they drove along the golden roads, gayer than ever they had been. The nearness of a volcano has never been a bar to gaiety. Dinner was a joyous feast, and when it was over, and the other guests had strolled out, Temple sang all the songs Betty liked best. Betty played for him. It was all very pleasant, and both pretended, quite beautifully, that they were the best of friends, and that it had never, never been a question of anything else. The pretence lasted through all the moonlight of the home drive--lasted indeed till the pony was trotting along the straight avenue that leads down into Grez. And even then it was not Temple who broke it. It was Betty, and she laid her hand on his arm. "Look here," she said. "I've been thinking about it ever since you said it. And I'm not going to let it spoil anything. Only I don't want you to think I don't understand. And I'm most awfully proud that you should.... I am really. And I'd rather be liked by you than by anyone--" "Almost," said Temple a little bitterly. "I don't feel sure about that part of it--really. One feels and thinks such a lot of different things--and they all contradict everything else, till one doesn't know what anything means, or what it is one really--I can't explain. But I don't want you to think your having talked about it makes any difference. At least I don't mean that at all. What I mean is that of course I like you ever so much better now I know that you like me, and--oh, I don't want to--I don't want you to think it's all no good, because really and truly I don't know." All this time she had kept her hand on his wrist. Now he laid his other hand over it. "Dear," he said, "that's all I want, and more than I hoped for now. I won't say another word about it--ever, if you'd rather not,--only if ever you feel that it is me, and not that other chap, then you'll tell me, won't you?" "I'll tell you now," said Betty, "that I wish with all my heart it _was_ you, and not the other." When he had said goodnight at the deserted door of the courtyard Betty slipped through the trees to her pavilion. The garden seemed more crowded with trees than it had ever been. It was almost as though new trees from the forest had stolen in while she was at Fontainebleau, and joined the ranks of those that stood sentinel round the pavilion. There was a lamp in the garden room--as usual. Its light poured out and lay like a yellow carpet on the terrace, and lent to the foliage beyond that indescribable air of festivity, of light-heartedness that green leaves can always borrow from artificial light. "I'll just see if there are any letters," she told herself. "There always might be: from Aunt Julia or Miss Voscoe or--someone."