Betty, in surprise, gave him a quick look, and then as quickly glanced away from what she encountered in his eyes.  Men were accustomed to talk sentiment to her, but she had hoped—­well, she really had thought that he was, superior to this weakness.  She had enjoyed the feeling that here was some one, big and strong and thoroughly masculine, with whom she could be friendly without—­she took another look at him from under the fringe of her long lashes.  He was so nice and considerate—­and good looking—­he was undeniably this last.  It would be a pity!  And she had already determined that Tom should invite him to Belle Plain.  She didn’t mind if he was a river-man—­they could be friends, for clearly he was such an exception.  Tom should be cordial to him.  Betty stared before her, intently watching the river.  As she looked, suddenly pale points of light appeared on a distant headland.

“Is that New Madrid?—­Oh, is it, Mr. Carrington?"’ she cried eagerly.

“I reckon so,” but he did not alter his position.

“But you’re not looking!”

“Yes, I am—­I’m looking at you.  I reckon you’ll think me crazy, Miss Malroy-presumptuous and all that but I wish Memphis could be wiped off the map and that we could go on like this for ever! —­no, not like this but together—­you and I” he took a deep breath.  Betty drew a little farther away, and looked at him reproachfully; and then she turned to the dancing lights far down the river.  Finally she said slowly: 

“I thought you were—­different.”

“I’m not,” and Carrington’s hand covered hers.

“Oh—­you mustn’t kiss my hand like that—­”

“Dear—­I’m just a man—­and you didn’t expect, did you, that I could see you this way day after day and not come to love you?” He rested his arm across the back of her chair and leaned toward her.

“No—­no—­” and Betty moved still farther away.

“Give me a chance to win your love, Betty!”

“You mustn’t talk so—­I am nothing to you—­”

“Yes, you are.  You’re everything to me,” said Carrington doggedly.

“I’m not—­I won’t be!” and Betty stamped her foot.

“You can’t help it.  I love you and that’s all there is about it.  I know I’m a fool to tell you now, Betty, but years wouldn’t make any difference in my feeling; and I can’t have you go, and perhaps never see you again, if I can help it.  Betty—­give me a chance—­you don’t hate me—­”

“But I do—­yes, I do—­indeed—­”

“I know you don’t.  Let me see you again and do what I can to make you care for me!” he implored.  But he had a very indignant little aristocrat to deal with.  She was angry with him, and angry with herself that in spite of herself his words moved her.  She wouldn’t have it so!  Why, he wasn’t even of her class—­her kind!  “Betty, you don’t mean—­” he faltered.

“I mean—­I am extremely annoyed.  I mean just what I say.”  Betty regarded him with wrathful blue eyes.  It proved too much for Carrington.  His arm, dropped about her shoulders.