“You, Bruce?—Oh, I shall miss you, too—dreadfully—but then, perhaps in five years, when you come back—”
“Five years!” cried Carrington, but he understood, something of what was passing in her mind, and laughed shortly. “Five years, Betty?” he repeated, dwelling on the numeral.
Betty hesitated and looked thoughtful. Presently she stole a surreptitious glance at Carrington from under her long lashes, and went on slowly, as though she were making careful choice of her words.
“When you come back in three years, Bruce—”
Carrington still regarded her fixedly. There was a light in his black eyes that seemed to penetrate to the most secret recesses of her heart and soul.
“Three years, Betty?” he repeated again.
Betty, her eyes cast down, twisted her rein nervously between her slim, white fingers, but Carrington's steady glance never left her sweet face, framed by its halo of bright hair. She stole another look at him from beneath her dark lashes.
“Three years, Betty?” he prompted.
“Bruce, don't stare at me that way, it makes me forget what I was going to say! When you come, back—next year—” and then she lifted her eyes to his and he saw that they were full of sudden tears. “Bruce, don't go away—don't go away at all—”
Carrington slipped from the saddle and stood at her side.