“Betty!” he cried again, softly. “You must come back to me.”
She hesitated, turned, and came. He put her in front of him, and took her face between his hands.
“Oh, my dear!” he said, “what have I done?”
She looked up piteously into his eyes.
“No, no,” she whispered, in a drowned voice, “you’re not to blame. You keep your word—you would have me keep mine, like the gentleman you are. It’s—it’s——”
“What, Betty?”
“Only let me see you now and then—see you, and not be spoken to or noticed.”
“How can I prevent you, if you will? But would it be wise?”
She drew herself away from him gently but forcibly.
“No, it would not,” she said, in a low voice; “but love is never that. Yes, love—why should I hide it? And I have found out what I wanted to know. I shall soon hear the bells ringing for your wedding, and—and—oh! why did you ever kiss me?”