He would not acknowledge that the thing was ended, and in the end he had written her a letter.  He cried to Heaven that a marriage between her and young Paine would be a crime.  “How can you love him, Becky—­you are mine.”

The letter had been returned unopened.  His burning phrases might have been dead ashes for all the good they had done.  She had not read them.

And now Madge had told him the unbelievable thing—­that Becky Bannister, the shabby Becky of the simple cottons and the stubbed shoes, was rich, not as Waterman was rich, flamboyantly, vulgarly, with an eye to letting all the world know.  But rich in a thoroughbred fashion, scorning display—­he knew the kind, secure in a knowledge of the unassailable assets of birth and breeding and solid financial standing.

No wonder young Paine wanted to marry her.  George, driving through the night, set his teeth.  He was seeing Randy, poor as Job’s turkey, with Becky’s money for a background.

Well, he should not have it.  He should not have Becky.

George headed the car for the Merriweathers’.  Becky was there, and he was going to see Becky.  How he was to see her he left to the inspiration to the moment.

He parked his car by the road, and walked through the great stone gates.  The palatial residence was illumined from top to bottom, its windows great squares of gold against the night.  The door stood open, but except for a servant or two there was no one in the wide hall.  The guests were dancing in the ballroom at the back, and George caught the lilt of the music as he skirted the house, then the sound of voices, the light laughter of the women, the deeper voices of the men.

The little balconies, lighted by the yellow lanterns, were empty.  As soon as the music stopped they would be filled with dancers seeking the coolness of the outer air.  He stood looking up, and suddenly, as if the stage had been set, Becky stepped out on the balcony straight in front of him, and stood under the yellow lantern.  The light was dim, but it gave to her white skin, to her lace frock, to the pink fan, a faint golden glow.  She might have been transmuted from flesh into some fine metal.  George had not heard the Major’s name for her, “Mademoiselle Midas,” but he had a feeling that the little golden figure was symbolic—­here was the real Golden Girl for him—­not Madge or any other woman.

Randy was with her, back in the shadow, but unmistakable, his lean height, the lift of his head.

George moved forward until, hidden by a bush, he was almost under the balcony.  He could catch the murmur of their voices.  But not a word that they said was intelligible.