His face, turned to the light, appeared paler; his eyes looked studiously beyond her.

“It will be jolly on the steamer, won’t it?” she went on.

“Jolly?  Oh, yes,” he assented, with false enthusiasm, when a black and white apparition appeared before them, no less a person than Sir Charles.

The governor, as the bearer of particular news, had been looking for her.  Mr. Heatherbloom hardly appreciated the preamble or the importance of what followed.  Sir Charles imparted a bit of confidential information they were not to breathe to any one until he had verified the particulars.  Word had just been brought to him that the Nevski had gone on a reef near a neighboring island and was a total wreck.  A passing steamer had stood by, taken off the prince and his crew and landed them.  Still Mr. Heatherbloom but vaguely heard; he felt little interest at the moment in his excellency or his boat.  Betty Dalrymple’s face, however, showed less indifference to this startling intelligence.

“The Nevski a wreck?” she murmured.

“It must all seem like an evil dream to you now,” Mr. Heatherbloom spoke absently.  “Your having ever been on her!”

“Not all an evil one,” she answered.  They stood again on the ball-room floor.  “Much good has come from it.  I no longer hate the prince.  I only blame myself a great deal for many things—­”

He seemed to hear only her first words. “‘Good come from it?’ I don’t understand.”

“But for the Nevski, and what happened to me, I should have gone on thinking, as I did, about you.”

“And—­would that have made such a difference?” quickly.

She raised her eyes.  “What do you think?”

“Betty!”

The music had begun.  He who had heretofore danced perfectly, now guided wildly.

“Take care!” she whispered.

But discretion seemed to have left him; he spoke he knew not what—­wild mad words that would not be suppressed.  They came in contact with another couple and were brought to an abrupt stop.  Flaming poppies shone on her cheeks; her eyes were brightly beaming.  But she laughed and they went on.  He swept her out of the crowded ball-room now, on to the broad veranda where a few other couples also moved in the starlight.  On her curved lips a smile rested; it seemed to draw his head lower.

“Betty, do you mean it?” Again the words were wrested from him, would come.  “What your eyes said just now?”

She lifted them again, gladly, freely—­not only that—­

“Yes; I mean it—­mean it,” said her lips.  “Of course!  Foolish boy!  I have long meant it—­”

“Long?” he cried.

“You heard what the Russian woman said—­”

“About there being some one?  Then it was—­”

“Guess.”  The sweet laughing lips were close; his swept them passionately.  He found the answer; the world seemed to go round.

But later, that night, there was no joy on Mr. Heatherbloom’s face.  In his room in the old negro woman’s house, he indited a letter.  It was brought to Betty Dalrymple the next morning as the early sunshine entered her chamber overlooking the governor’s park.