“And you have been living in London for years? You are not—” a glance at the ringless hand—“not married then? I always thought you would marry. ... You will give me your address. I must not lose sight of you again.—A Governesses’ Home. Oh, Alice!...”
General Digby had no appetite for muffins and apricot jam that afternoon. His fierce old face worked strangely as he sat with the untasted tea in his hands, his glassy eyes were for once moist and tender. As for Miss Beveridge, the flush died away from her cheeks, leaving her looking even more worn and grey than before, and Betty, looking at her, was conscious of a sudden tender outgoing of the heart, a longing to help and comfort, such as had inspired Nan Vanburgh months before, but after which she herself had striven in vain. This was evidently a meeting of old lovers parted by some untoward fate. Ah, poor soul, and it had come too late! Youth and health, and joy and beauty, had all paid toll to the long years as they passed. How shocked and pained the General must be, to meet his love in such a sadly different guise! It was not possible he could care for her any more. Better not to have met, and to have preserved the old illusion.
“I’ll be nice to her! I thought she had been born old, but she has been young after all. I will be nice to her. I’ll try to make up!” said Betty pitifully to herself.
Chapter Twenty.
A Tète-à-Tète.
Half an hour later, when Betty escorted the General to the door, he paused in the hall to lay his hand on her arm, and inquire in a voice unusually tremulous—
“You have often spoken to me about your ‘Govies,’ as you call them. Was—was She one of the number?”
Betty murmured an assent, guiltily conscious of the criticisms which had accompanied the references. Was he about to take her to task for all the scathing remarks she had made on the subject of his old love? But no—the grip tightened on her arm, and he said gently—