“Yes, I'm sure.” Beatrice had never done anything she hated more.
Sir Redmond, looking into her eyes, wondered why those much-vaunted sharpshooters, the Boers, had blundered and passed him by.
“I don't suppose it matters much now—but will you tell me why? I believed you would decide differently.” He was holding his voice down to a dead level, and it was not easy.
“Because—” Beatrice faced the moon, which threw a soft glow upon her face, and into her wonderful, deep eyes a golden light. “Oh, I'm sorry, Sir Redmond! But you see, I didn't know. I—I just learned to-day what it means to—to love. I—I am going to stay here. A new company—is about to be formed, Sir Redmond. The Maltese Cross and the—Triangle Bar—are going to cast their lot together.” The golden glow deepened and darkened, and blended with the red blood which flushed cheek and brow and throat.
It took Sir Redmond a full minute to comprehend. When he did, he breathed deep, shut his lips upon words that would have frightened her, and went down the steps into the gloom.
Beatrice watched him stride away into the dusky silence, and her heart ached with sympathy for him. Then she looked beyond, to where the lights of the Cross ranch twinkled joyously, far down the coulee, and the sweet egotism of happiness enfolded her, shutting him out. After that she forgot him utterly. She looked up at the moon, sailing off to meet the stars, smiled good-fellowship and then went in to face her mother.