"Hand me that green silk petticoat. Thank you. What did you think I'd understand?"
"Why that I—that it's him I love."
"You do, do you?"
"Yes, always, always! And I must go to him. But I won't go and leave Bobbie to think I'm going to marry him some day. I must tell him first, and then I'm going straight to Paris to find him, and give him the answer to his letter."
"You must do as you like. It's your life, not mine. But it's a pity," said her aunt, "and I should send a telegram to prepare him."
"The office won't be open. There's a train at seven forty-five. Oh, do hurry. I've ordered the pony. We'll call and tell Mr. Temple."
It was not the 7:45 that was caught, however, but the 10:15, because Temple was, naturally, in bed. When he had been roused, and had dressed and come out to them, in the gay terrace overhanging the river where the little tables are and the flowers in pots and the vine-covered trellis, Miss Desmond turned and positively fled before the gay radiance of his face.
"This is dear and sweet of you," he said to Betty.
"What lovely scheme have you come to break to me? But what's the matter? You're not ill?"
"Oh, don't," said Betty; "don't look like that! I couldn't go without telling you. It's all over, Bobbie."