“Do I terrify you, you little brown starling? I am overcome myself, half-silly with anger and contempt, and most of all, I think, with injured vanity.” She gazed up at him from the depths of entreating eyes, and he saw the slow tears gathering in them. “Betty, Betty!” he murmured. “You are a gentleman, and I am alone,” was all she answered. He was silent a minute. He held her still, softly caressing the hair on her forehead. “Why, I should be angered if any one called me otherwise,” he said. “And that, maybe, would end in a bullet; and so to prove my claim to the title before the court of final appeal up there. And what could I say?--that Betty trusted me, and that I abused her trust.” “You will not--no, never.” “But I am in a very cruel and selfish mood, sweetheart; and I know that you love me--I know it, Betty.” She forced his hands apart, and stepped back. “Yes,” she said bravely, “I do; I can’t help it. I would follow you across the world if you called me. But you will not.” “Not across the world; but this room. Come!” She went up to him at once; allowed herself to be taken into his arms--to have her lips passionately kissed. Then she drew back once more with bowed head. “Now,” she said low, “I am yours; and I love you purely, and I am sweet and good. Yes, I am; for how else could I school the love in my heart, and it near breaking? And you love me because I am. But what should I be afterwards--oh, what, what?” “Betty, I am unhappy.” She threw herself into grandfather’s old elbow-chair, and buried her face in her hands. “No, no!” she cried piteously. “You won’t be so cruel!” He went and seated himself by her on the arm of the chair. “Shall I tell you what hath driven me to you, Betty?” “You have quarrelled with _her_,” came the answer in a muffled voice, out of woman’s intuition. “No, my dear. I am not justified in assuming the right to quarrel. She hath given me none. But she maddens me with her whimsies till the man in me rises up and refuses to be any longer the slave of her caprices.” “What is she doing?” “She trifles with my suit. ’Twas an honourable one that would seek to found a union on esteem and confidence. What can she know of these when she plays off my own servant against me in the regard of both?” “She will make none the worse wife for standing off and on a little before.” “That is not like you, Betty.” “Is it not? But I wear my shameful heart on my sleeve. And what of the servant?” “A decent, low-born fellow. I hold him nothing to blame. He walks like a cat on the ice till ’tis comical to see him.” He laughed slightly. The little warmth of merriment awoke new tenderness in him. He put his arm about the girl’s shoulders as she lay huddled close by.