Hetty turned and looked at him with a softness in her eyes, for the little tremor in his voice had touched her.
“And I was hoping you had forgotten,” she said.
“No,” said Cheyne quietly. “I don’t think I ever shall. You haven’t a grain of comfort to offer me?”
Hetty shook her head, and involuntarily one hand went up and rested a moment on something that lay beneath the laces at her neck. “No,” she said. “I am ever so sorry, Jake, but I have nothing whatever to offer you—now.”
“Then,” said Cheyne, with a little gesture of resignation, “I suppose it can be borne because it must be—and I think I understand. I know he must be a good man—or you would never have cared for him.”
Hetty looked at him steadily, but the colour that had crept into her cheek spread to her forehead. “Jake,” she said, “no doubt there are more, but I have met two Americans who are, I think, without reproach. I shall always be glad I knew them—and it is not your fault that you are not the right one.”
Cheyne made her a little grave inclination. “Then, I hope we shall be good friends when I meet the other one. I am going to stay some little time in the cattle country.”
“I almost hope you will not meet just yet,” Hetty said anxiously, “and you must never mention what I have told you to anybody.”
“You have only told me that I was one of two good Americans,” said Cheyne, with a quiet smile which the girl found reassuring. “Now, you don’t want to send me away?”
“No,” said Hetty. “It is so long since I have seen you. You have come to help us against our enemies?”