"And was she happy?"
"No!"
"Which doth but serve her to her deserts!" The Major winced, perceiving which, my lady faced him. "How, do you love her yet?" she questioned.
"My lady, she is dead," he answered. Lady Betty turned and leaning to a rose that bloomed near by, touched it with gentle fingers.
"And—do you—love her yet, Major John?" she asked softly.
"I held her in my memory as the sweetest of all women until a few weeks ago," he answered simply. My lady's caressing fingers faltered suddenly.
"She was the third woman in your life?"
"Yes," he answered, "because of her memory I have lived a hard life and let love go by nor thought of it."
"Not once?"
"Not once, until of late." My lady was silent, and, leaning nearer, he continued: "Twenty years ago I gave my love and, being hopeless, sought for death and never found it. So, hating war, I made of war my life. I became a soldier of fortune and wheresoever battle was, there was I; when one campaign ended I went in quest of others. So I have learned much of men, of foreign countries, and war in every shape, but of women and love—nothing whatever. Indeed I should be fighting yet but for this unexpected legacy. And now——" He sighed.