"You may be famous yet," she whispered. "This morning when you began I—I almost forgot that it was you. And when I looked round, everybody, even the village boys, were spellbound."
"But when I f-f-failed," said Mark hurriedly, "you, you felt what I f-f-felt, that, that——" He put his hand to his throat, unable to finish the phrase because of the detestable lump rising and swelling in his throat.
"You thought that because I cried."
He nodded, seeing again her despairing gesture.
"I am sorry I was such a poor friend," she said quickly. "I ought not to have cried. I behaved like a weak fool. You will succeed yet, Mark. I know it; I know it."
The lump in his throat seemed to dissolve.
"But," she continued, "if—if it should be otherwise, do you think that I would care? Do you measure my friendship for you by the world's foot-rule?"
Mark seized her hands.
"God bless you!" he said passionately. "God bless you, dear, dear Betty!" Then abruptly, with a strange smile, he added, "Good-bye!"
He had gone before she could recover her wits or her voice. She stood alone, a piteous figure, truly feminine inasmuch as she was not able to pursue the man.