had been corners and by-ways of the big, rambling old garden filled with
poignant, almost unbearable, associations of the days when she and
Godfrey had been lovers. There had been certain nooks and hidden oases
where it had been agony to go. She had considered all kinds of things as
being possible. Perhaps her most certain conviction had been that he
would come back some day with a wife whom she, Betty, would try to teach
herself to love; but never had she visioned what had now actually
occurred, that is Radmore's quiet, commonplace falling-back into the
day-to-day life of Old Place.

All at once she heard Timmy's clear treble voice:--"Hullo! There's
Betty."

Radmore turned and said something Betty did not hear, and the child went
off like an arrow from the bow. Then Radmore, turning, came towards her
quickly. She had no clue to the strange look of pain and indecision on
his face, and her heart began to beat, strangely.

When close to her:--"Betty," he said in a low voice, "I want to tell you
that I didn't know about George till last night. How could you think I
did?"

"I suppose one does think unjust things when one's in great trouble," she
answered.

He felt hurt and angry and showed it. "I should have thought you would
all have known me well enough to know that I should have written at
once--at once. Why, the whole world's altered now that I know that George
is no longer in it! Perhaps that sounds foolish and exaggerated, as I
never wrote to him. But I think _you'll_ know what I mean, Betty? It was