“I let you go.  But I knew—­I knew before you went—­that even if you found him, even if you brought him back, even if he cared for me still, I should have nothing to give him.  My feeling for him was just a dream from which I had awakened.  Oh, Monty, I was yours even then; and I kept it back.  That was why I wanted your forgiveness.”

Breathlessly she ended, and in silence he heard her out.  He was holding her very closely to him, but his eyes looked beyond her, as though they searched a far horizon.

“Do you understand?” whispered Betty at last.

He moved, and the look in his eyes changed.  It was as if the horizon narrowed.

“I understand,” he said.

She lifted her face, with a gesture half shy, half confiding.

“Are you going to forgive me, Monty?  I—­I’ve paid a big price for my foolishness—­bigger than you will ever know.  I kept asking myself—­asking myself—­whatever I should do if you—­if you brought him back.”

“Poor child!” he said.  “Poor little Betty!”

She clung to him suddenly.

“Oh, wasn’t I an idiot?  And yet, somehow, I feel so treacherous.  Monty—­Monty, you’re sure he is dead?”

“Yes, he is dead,” said Herne deliberately.

She drew a deep breath.

“I’m so thankful he never knew!” she said.  “I—­I don’t suppose he really cared, do you?  Not enough to spoil his life?”

“God knows!” said Montague Herne very gravely.

* * * * *

“Hullo!” said Betty’s fellow-sportsman, making his appearance some time later.  “Getting on for grub-time, eh?  How have you got on?  Why, I thought you came out to fish, and not to talk!  Who on earth——­”

“My fiance,” said Betty quickly.

“Your—­Hullo!  Why, it’s Major Herne!  Delighted to see you!  Had no idea you were in this country.  Thought you were hunting big game somewhere in Africa.”

“I was,” said Herne.  “I—­had no luck.  So I came home.”

“Where—­presumably—­you found it!  Congratulations!  Betty, I’m pleased!”

“How nice of you!” said Betty.

“Yes, it is rather, all things considered.  How ever, I suppose even I must regard it as a blessing in disguise.  Perhaps, when you are married, you will kindly leave off breaking all our hearts for nothing!”

“Perhaps you will leave off being so foolish as to let them be broken,” returned Betty, with spirit.

“Ah, perhaps!  Not very likely though I fear.  Hearts are tender things—­eh, Major Herne?  And when someone like Betty comes along there is sure to be some damage done.  It’s the penalty we have to pay for being only human.”

“Ah, well, you soon get over it,” said Betty quickly.

“How do you know that?  I may perhaps, if I’m lucky; but there are exceptions to every rule.  Some of us go on paying the penalty all our lives.”

A moment’s silence followed the light words.  Betty apparently had nothing to say.