He could do nothing at all.  That was the sum of his ultimate conclusions.  His hands were tied.  He could not go back and he could not go on.  He sat beside Betty, longing to take her in his arms and still fighting stoutly against that impulse.  He was afraid of his impulses.

A faint moisture broke out on his face with that acute nervous strain.  A lump rose chokingly in his throat.  He stared out at the white-crested seas that came marching up the Gulf before a rising wind until his eyes grew misty.  Then he slid down off the log and laid his head on Betty’s knee.  A weight of dumb grief oppressed him.  He wanted to cry, and he was ashamed of his weakness.

Betty’s fingers stole caressingly over his bare head, rumpled his hair, stroked his hot cheek.

“Johnny-boy,” she said at last, “what is it that comes like a fog between you and me?”

MacRae did not answer.

“I make love to you quite openly,” Betty went on.  “And I don’t seem to be the least bit ashamed of doing so.  I’m not a silly kid.  I’m nearly as old as you are, and I know quite well what I want—­which happens to be you.  I love you, Silent John.  The man is supposed to be the pursuer.  But I seem to have that instinct myself.  Besides,” she laughed tremulously, “this is leap year.  And, remember, you kissed me.  Or did I kiss you?  Which was it, Jack?”

MacRae seated himself on the log beside her.  He put his arm around her and drew her close to him.  That disturbing wave of emotion which had briefly mastered him was gone.  He felt only a passionate tenderness for Betty and a pity for them both.  But he had determined what to do.

“I do love you, Betty,” he said—­“your hair and your eyes and your lips and the sound of your voice and the way you walk and everything that is you.  Is that quite plain enough?  It’s a sort of emotional madness.”

“Well, I am afflicted with the same sort of madness,” she admitted.  “And I like it.  It is natural.”

“But you wouldn’t like it if you knew it meant a series of mental and spiritual conflicts that would be almost like physical torture,” he said slowly.  “You’d be afraid of it.”

“And you?” she demanded.

“Yes,” he said simply.  “I am.”

“Then you’re a poor sort of lover,” she flung at him, and freed herself from his arms with a quick twist of her body.  Her breast heaved.  She moved away from him.

“I’ll admit being a poor lover, perhaps,” MacRae said.  “I didn’t want to love you.  I shouldn’t love you.  I really ought to hate you.  I don’t, but if I was consistent, I should.  I ought to take every opportunity to hurt you just because you are a Gower.  I have good reason to do so.  I can’t tell you why—­or at least I am not going to tell you why.  I don’t think it would mend matters if I did.  I dare say I’m a better fighter than a lover.  I fight in the open, on the square.  And because I happen to care enough to shrink from making you risk things I can’t dodge, I’m a poor lover.  Well, perhaps I am.”