The interview that followed only increased the despair of Bellairs. Lord Braydon was most sympathetic, most courteously sorry, but he said that his daughter's decision was absolutely irrevocable, and he could not attempt to coerce her in such an important matter.
“At any rate, I must see her before you sail,” said Bellairs at last. “I think she owes me at least that one last debt.”
“I think so too,” said Lord Braydon. “Come at six. I will undertake that you shall see her.”
How Bellairs spent the intervening hours he could never remember. He did not go back to the hotel; he must have wandered all day along the river bank. Yet he felt neither the heat, nor any fatigue, nor any hunger. At six o'clock he reached the dahabeeyah. Lady Betty was sitting alone on the deck. She looked very pale and grave.
“My father and mother and Clarice have gone up to the hotel,” she said. “That Austrian is playing again this evening.”
“Is he?” Bellairs answered. He sat down beside her and tried to take her hand. But she would not let him.
“No,” she said. “No, it's no use. I have made a ghastly mistake, but I will not make another. Oh, forgive me, do forgive me!”
“How can I? If you will not try to love me my life is ruined.”
“Don't say that. It's no use to try to love. You know that. We must just let ourselves alone. Love comes, or hate, just as God wills it. We can only accept our fate.”