The latter part of the remark was by way of apology.  The breach of the engagement had occasioned a cessation of social relations between Betty and Mrs. Boyce.  Betty’s aunts had ceased calling on Mrs. Boyce and Mrs. Boyce had ceased calling on Betty’s aunts.  Whenever the estranged parties met, which now and then was inevitable in a little town, they bowed with distant politeness, but exchanged no words.  Everything was conducted with complete propriety.  The old lady, knowing how beloved an intimate of mine was Betty, alluded but once to the broken engagement.  That was when Betty got married.

“It has been a great unhappiness to me, Major,” she said.  “In spite of her daring ways, which an old woman like myself can’t quite understand, I was very fond of her.  She was just the girl for Leonard.  They made such a handsome couple.  I have never known why it was broken off.  Leonard won’t tell me.  It’s out of the question that it could be his fault, and I can’t believe it is all Betty Fairfax’s.  She’s a girl of too much character to be a mere jilt.”

I remember that I couldn’t help smiling at the application of the old-fashioned word to my Betty.

“You may be quite certain she isn’t that,” said I.

“Then what was the reason?  Do you know?”

I didn’t.  I was as mystified as herself.  I told her so.  I didn’t mention that a few days before she had implied that Leonard was a devil and she wished that he was dead, thereby proving to me, who knew Betty’s uprightness, that Boyce and Boyce only was to blame in the matter.  It would have been a breach of confidence, and it would not have made my old friend any the happier.  It would have fired her with flaming indignation against Betty.

“Young people,” said I, “must arrange their own lives.”  And we left it at that.  Now and then, afterwards, she enquired politely after Betty’s health, and when Willie Connor was killed, she spoke to me very feelingly and begged me to convey to Betty the expression of her deep sympathy.  In the unhappy circumstances, she explained, she was naturally precluded from writing.

So Betty’s letter was the first direct communication that had passed between them for nearly two years.  That is why to my meddlesome-minded self it appeared to have some significance.

“You did, did you?” said I. Then I looked at her quickly, with an idea in my head.  “What did Mrs. Boyce say in reply?”

“She has had no time to answer.  Didn’t I tell you I only posted the letter to-day?”

“Then you’ve heard nothing more about Leonard Boyce except that he has got the V.C.?”

“No.  What more is there to hear?”

Even Bettys are sly folk.  It behooved me to counter with equal slyness.  I wondered whether she had known all along of Boyce’s mishap, or had been informed of it by his mother.  Knowledge might explain her unwonted outburst.  I looked at her fixedly.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, bending slightly down to me.