reason—­myself.  On us he concentrated all the strength of his affection.  Mind you, it was not a case of a maimed creature clinging for support to those who cared for him.  In his intercourse with me, he never for a moment suggested that he was seeking help or solace in his affliction.  On the contrary, he ruled it out of the conditions of social life.  He was as brave as you please.  In his laughing scorn of blindness he was the bravest man I have ever known.  He learned the confidence of the blind with marvellous facility.  His path through darkness was a triumphant march.

Sometimes, when he re-fought old battles and planned new ones, forecast the strategy of the Great Advance, word-painted scenes and places, drew character sketches of great leaders and quaint men, I forgot the tragedy of Althea Fenimore.  And when the memory came swiftly back, I wondered whether, after all, Gedge’s story from first to last had not been a malevolent invention.  The man seemed so happy.  Of course you will say it was my duty to give a hint of Gedge’s revelation.  It was.  To my shame, I shirked it.  I could not find it in my heart suddenly to dash into his happiness.  I awaited an opportunity, a change of mood in him, an allusion to confidences of which I alone of human beings had been the recipient.

Betty visited me as usual.  We talked war and hospital and local gossip for a while and then she seemed to take refuge at the piano.  We had one red-letter day, when a sailor cousin of hers, fresh from the North Sea, came to luncheon and told us wonders of the Navy which we had barely imagined and did not dare to hope for.  His tidings gave subject for many a talk.

I knew that she was seeing Boyce constantly.  The former acquaintance of the elders of the two houses flamed into sudden friendship.  From a remark artlessly let fall by Mrs. Boyce, I gathered that the old ladies were deliberately contriving such meetings.  Boyce and Betty referred to each other rarely and casually, but enough to show me that the old feud was at an end.  And of what save one thing could the end of a feud between lovers be the beginning?  What did she know?  Knowing all, how could she be drawn back under the man’s fascination?  The question maddened me.  I suffered terribly.

At last, one evening, I could bear it no longer.  She was playing Chopin.  The music grated on me.  I called out to her: 

“Betty!”

She broke off and turned round, with a smile of surprise.  Again she was wearing the old black evening dress, in which I have told you she looked so beautiful.

“No more music, dear.  Come and talk to me.”

She crossed the room with her free step and sat near my chair.

“What shall I talk about?” she laughed.

“Leonard Boyce.”

The laughter left her face and she gave me a swift glance.

“Majy dear, I’d rather not,” she said with a little air of finality.