Mercifully, no soul can stand at the pitch of tension long. Those too frail¹ snap. The strong relax. As I have learned since, few who have to do with lingering illness but come to know the gradual, inevitable² dulling of apprehension³ in the watchers. Eric says the power of human adaptability⁴ sees to it that the abnormal state of the sufferer shall come by mere⁵ continuance to wear an air of the normal. And so the watcher, with no violence to loyalty⁶, or conscience, is relieved of the sharper sympathy.  
Certainly, my mother seemed to us in no worse case than many a time before. Bettina and I agreed that she began to improve the moment Duncombe air was no longer poisoned for her by the presence of poor Madame Aurore. What Eric had said of our trustworthy servants was true. Yet I had brought my mother to agree that my absence, now, was to be a matter only of hours, even if I went back for the Coronation.
 
And still I was not spared a profound sinking[Pg 245] of the heart at the moment of leave-taking. I put my misgiving⁷ down to the fear that parting from Bettina for four long weeks, would be more than my mother's scant⁸ reserve of strength could bear.
 
As for Bettina (oh, when I remember that!)—Bettina showed the bravest front; calling back from the door: "I shall write you every blessed day."
 
"Yes," my mother steadied her voice to answer. "I shall want to hear everything. The good and—the less good."
 
"There won't be any 'less good.' It's all going to be glorious."
 
As Big Klaus's dog-cart took us across the heath I strained my eyes for some glimpse of Eric. A week that day since he had come and shared his secret! He could never mean to let me go without a word. Not till the train was in motion could I give up hope. I stood a moment longer at the window looking back. No sign.
 
I took my seat between Betty and an old gentleman; she and I both too stirred and excited to talk. Betty, half-turned away, looked out of her window,[Pg 246] and I, across her shoulder and over the flying hedges, looked still for a man who might be walking the field-paths, looked for the bright green roof of his Bungalow⁹, looked for the chimneys of the farm.
 
No sign.
 
I sat fighting down my tears.
 
Not an hour of these bustling¹⁰ days had been so full, but I had felt the blank of Eric's silence. And now again I met the ache of loss with: This will teach you! You were dreading¹¹ a little time away. He adds a week to our parting. He doesn't mind. It's only you, poor fool—only you who mind.
 
I looked round, in a sudden terror, lest anyone should be noticing that my eyes were wet.
 
Mercifully, the people were all looking at Betty. I looked at Betty, too. I could not see her eyes, but the nearer cheek was that lovely colour whose name she gave once to an evening sky. We had come up on the top of a knoll¹² and stood for a moment, breathless. My mother had said no painter could get such a colour. And neither were there any words in the language to describe it. For it was not red, not flame, not pink, nor[Pg 247] orange. But Betty, looking steadily¹³, had found the right words for it: "A fiery¹⁴ rose."
 
And that was the colour in Betty's cheeks on the way to London.
 
No wonder people looked at her. There was a man who got out of the first-class carriage next us at every station, and walked by our window. He looked in at Bettina. I was glad our carriage was full. I felt sure, if it had not been, he would have come in. I could see Bettina did not resent the staring. And then I saw her look out of the corner of her eyes.
 
"Bettina!" I whispered. "Don't encourage that strange man to stare in here."
 
"Me?" she said. "What am I doing?"
 
I told her again that she encouraged him. But I was handicapped by not being able to say just how. I admitted that what she did was very slight. But it was enough. "It was what you did to Eddie Monmouth." Then, because she pretended not to understand, I told her that she was falling into bad deceitful ways. I knew she had written to Ranny Dallas.... Yes, and kept writing, though the moment I realised what was going on I wrote to Ranny myself. I said[Pg 248] if any more letters came from him, I should have to tell Betty about the girl in Norfolk. Ranny wrote back that he had told Betty himself! And still they went on corresponding, secretly. I said to her now, that I should hardly be surprised if she was hoping to meet Ra............