"Betty, I've a confession. Won't you walk toward the gate with me?"
The colour entered her white face as she turned and called to her mother:
"I'll walk to the gate with George."
From the room he fancied a rustling, irritated acknowledgment.
But she came, throwing a transparent scarf over her tawny hair, and they were alone in the moonlight and the scent of flowers, walking side by side across grass, beneath the heavy branches of trees.
"See here, Betty! I've no business to call you that—never have had. Without saying anything I've lied to you ever since I've been in Princeton. I've taken advantage of your friendship."
She paused. The thick leaves let through sufficient light to show him the bewilderment in her eyes. Her voice was a little frightened.
"You can't make me believe that. You're not the sort of man that does such things. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Thanks," he said, "but you're wrong, and I can't go away without telling you just what I am."
"You're just—George Morton," she said with a troubled smile.