When at last he descended to his little office, he spoke hopefully. "His strength and youth are in his favor—and I'm going to pull him through."
Yet he knew in his heart that he was flinging a defiance at destiny.
He arranged to keep Bettina at Harbor Light.
"Justin might ask for you again," was his explanation.
So Bobbie and Doris and Sara and Sophie went away together, and when there was no one else to hear, Anthony said to Bettina, gently, "My dear, why didn't you tell me?"
Curled up in a big leather chair, she spoke of her fear of hurting him, of being inconstant—like her father.
She seemed such a child in her blue serge suit with its red silk tie, and with the shady hat which had been pinned on hastily when the summons came. But the things she was saying were womanly things, and for the first time since he had known her Anthony perceived the possibilities of which Diana had been so sure—this little Betty child, transformed by love, would one day be an inspiration and a help to the man she would marry.
"If I have hurt you," she said, as she finished, "I—I can only ask you to forgive me. If this had not happened, I think I should have—kept my promise. But now you know—and you will not want me to keep it."
"No. I do not want you to keep it. Oh, what a tragedy we have made of it all. I might have made it so easy for you."
"You, Anthony?"