"Let me thank you for coming," said Vernon eagerly; "it was more than
good of you. I must own that my heart sank when I knew it was Miss
Betty's aunt who honoured me with a visit. But I am most glad you
came. I never would have believed that a lady could be so reasonable
and--and--"

"And gentlemanly?" said the lady. "Yes,--it's my brother-in-law who is
the old woman, poor dear! You see, Mr. Vernon, I've been running round
the world for five and twenty years, and I've kept my eyes open. And
when I was of an age to be silly, the man I was silly about had your
coloured eyes. He married an actress, poor fellow,--or rather, she
married him, before he could say 'knife.' That's the sort of thing
that'll happen to you, unless you're uncommonly careful. So that's
settled. You give me your word not to try to see Betty?"

"I give you my word. You won't believe in my regret--"

"I believe in that right enough. It must be simply sickening to have
the whole show given away like this. Oh, I believe in your regret!"

"My regret," said Vernon steadily, "for any pain I may have caused
your niece. Do please see how grateful I am to you for having seen at
once that it was not her fault at all, but wholly mine."

"Very nicely said: good boy!" said Betty's aunt. "Well, my excellent
brother-in-law is waiting outside in the fly, gnashing his respectable
teeth, no doubt, and inferring all sorts of complications from the
length of our interview. Good-bye. You're just the sort of young man I
like, and I'm sorry we haven't met on a happier footing. I'm sure we
should have got on together. Don't you think so?"