“I think that either you or I must be mad,” said Herne.

“Then it’s you!” flung back Betty half hysterically.  “To imagine for one moment that I—­that I meant—­that!”

“Meant what?” A sudden note of sternness made itself heard in Herne’s voice.  He moved a step forward, and took her shoulders between his hands, looking at her closely, unsparingly.  “Betty,” he said, “let us at least understand one another!  Tell me what you meant just now!”

She faced him defiantly

“I didn’t mean anything.”

He passed that by.

“Why did you ask my forgiveness?”

She made a sharp gesture of repudiation.

“What was there to forgive?” he insisted.

“I—­I am not going to tell you,” said Betty, with great distinctness.

Again he overlooked her open defiance.

“You are afraid.  Why?”

“I’m not!” said Betty almost fiercely.

“You are afraid,” he repeated deliberately, “afraid of my finding out—­something.  Betty, look at me!”

Her face was scarlet.  She turned it swiftly from him.

“Let me go!”

“Look at me!” he repeated.

She began to pant.  She was quivering between his hands like a wild thing caught.  “Major Herne, it isn’t fair of you!  Let me go!”

“Never, Betty!” He spoke with sudden decision; but all the grimness had gone from his face.  “You may as well give in, for I have you at my mercy.  And I will be merciful if you do, but not otherwise.”

“How dare you?” gasped Betty almost inarticulately.

“I dare do many things,” said Montague Herne, with a smile that was not all mirthful.  “How long have you left off crying for the moon?  Tell me!”

“I won’t tell you anything!” protested Betty.

“Yes, you will.  I have got to know it.  If you will only give in like a wise woman, you will find it much easier.”

His voice held persuasion this time.  For a little she made as if she would continue to resist him; then impulsively she yielded.

“Oh, Monty!” she said, with a sob; and the next moment was in his arms.

He held her close.

“Come!” he said.  “You can tell me now.”

“I—­don’t know,” whispered Betty, her face hidden.  “You—­frightened me by being so ready to go away again.  I couldn’t help wondering if it had been just kindness that prompted you to come to me.  It—­I suppose it wasn’t?” A startled note of interrogation sounded in her voice.  She was trembling still.

“Betty, Betty!” he said.

“Forgive me!” she whispered back, “You see, I couldn’t have endured that, because I—­love you.  No, wait; I haven’t finished.  I want you to know the truth.  I’ve been sacrificing substance to shadow, reality to dreams, all my life—­all my life.  But that night—­the night I took you into my confidence—­you opened my eyes.  I began to see what I was doing.  But I hadn’t the courage to tell you so, and it seemed not quite fair to Bobby so I held my peace.