He passed the question by. "At least, I have managed to come back again," he said, "as I promised."
"I—I am thankful to see you again," she faltered her shyness returning upon her. "I've been—desperately anxious."
"On my account?" said Herne.
She bent her head. "Yes."
"Lest I shouldn't come back?"
"Yes," she said again.
"But I told you I should," He was still holding her hand, trying to read her downcast face.
"Oh, I knew you would if you could," said Betty. "Only—I couldn't help thinking—of what you said about—about sacrificing substance to—shadow. It—was very wrong of me to send you."
She spoke unevenly, with obvious effort. She seemed determined that he should not have that glimpse into her soul which he so evidently desired.
"My dear Betty," he said, "I went on my own account as much as on yours. I think you forget that. Or are you remembering—and regretting—it?"