“Betty.”  The stars twinkled madly.  Pulsating waves seemed to vibrate in the air.  A moment he continued to stare into the darkness, then again turned.  He had not seen how the girl’s hand had suddenly closed, and her slender form had swayed.  As restlessly he resumed his sentinel’s duty, Sonia Turgeinov’s last words once more recurred to him.  How often had he thought of them that long afternoon, and wondered who was the one the young girl would now shortly be free to turn to?  There had been many in the past who had sought her favor.  Perhaps the unknown was one of these; or, more likely, one of the newer many that had arisen, no doubt, since, in the gayer larger world of New York, or the continent.  Betty Dalrymple’s manner at the Russian woman’s words indicated that the latter had—­how Mr. Heatherbloom could not imagine—­hit upon a great kernel of truth.  Again, in fancy, he saw on her cheek that swift flush of warm blood.  Lucky, thrice lucky, the man who had caused it!  Softly Mr. Heatherbloom moved nearer.

Was she sleeping?  He, himself, felt too fagged to sleep.  Like Psyche, in the glade, she was covered all with starlight.  He ventured closer, bent over; the widely opened eyes looked suddenly into his.

“The woman told me you had nothing to do with it—­that plot of hers and the prince,” she said slowly.  “I know now why you were on the boat, and—­all the rest—­what it meant for me, your being there.”

“You know, then”—­embarrassed—­“the awful mess I made of it all—­”

“You dared a great deal,” she said softly.

“And came an awful cropper!”

She did not answer directly.  “At first Francois was most reluctant to risk going with me,” she went on.  “I thought it odd, at the time, he should change so suddenly, become so brave.  Now I understand, at least, a little—­in a general way.  I have been over-quick to think evil of you, ever since we met again.  Perhaps, in the past, too”—­slowly—­“I have been—­”

“Betty!” he cried uneasily, and seemed about once more to move away, when—­

“Don’t go,” she said.  “I’ll not talk if you command me not to.  You’ve been the master to-day, you know,” with subtle accent.

“Have I?” His voice showed evidence of distress.  “I didn’t really mean—­it was necessary,” he ended firmly.

“Of course it was,” said the girl.  Her accent conveyed no note of displeasure.  Profile-wise he saw her face now—­the young moon beyond.  “Don’t think I’m blaming you.  I’m not quite so hard, perhaps, as I once was.”  Mr. Heatherbloom stood back a little farther in the shadow.  “Maybe, my poor little standard of judgment—­” she stopped.  “I have been heedless, heartless, perhaps—­”

“You!” he exclaimed.  “You!” There was only unfaltering adoration in his tone—­faith, unchanged and unchangeable.

She spoke with a little catch in her voice:  “Oh, I haven’t cared.  I did flirt with the prince; he accused me of that.  He was right.  What did it matter to me, if I made others suffer?  I haven’t always had so good a time as I seemed to—­” There was a ring of passion in her tone now.  “What happened?” she said, turning on him swiftly.  “What has happened?  I want to know all—­”