In the clear days which followed, Justin gave his undivided attention to flying. Not once did he see Bettina. Not once did he join the party of young people of which he had been the leading spirit.

In vain did Bobbie formulate enticing plans.

"We'll go to Cat Island with Captain Stubbs, fish all day, and have chowder on the rocks."

There had been one glorified fishing trip for Justin with Bettina. He wanted no other.

"I've wasted enough time," he said shortly. "I came here to practice flying, not to do social stunts."

Sara urged him also. "You haven't played a set of tennis with me since you came up," she complained. "Of course I know you're simply crazy over Betty Dolce, but that needn't cut me out entirely. I thought my friendship meant something to you, Justin."

"It does," Justin told her, honestly, "but I'm not in a mood for tennis, and as for Betty Dolce, I haven't seen her for a week."

Sara was cheered by his statement. If his absorption was simply in his flying machine, she could wait. Men always returned finally from machines to femininity.

So Justin flew and flew, looking down at times upon the tops of the houses in the quaint coast towns, at other times having beneath him and above him blue sea and blue sky.

And everywhere he went, he knew that people were craning their necks and crying out in wonder, for in this part of the world, at least, such aerial craft were rare visitors.

And when he grew tired of great heights, he would let his shining ship slide down the air currents until it touched the water; then like a mammoth aquatic bird it would swim the surface, and the sailors on the big yachts would lean out over the sides and hail him, and the motor boats would follow him, until, at last, growing impatient of their close observance, he would rise again, higher and higher in the golden haze; earth would be left behind, and he would be alone with his thoughts.

And he thought always of Bettina.

He thought of her as he had first seen her, in the shadowy room, with her shabby black dress and her white and gold beauty. He thought of her as she had come toward him under the lilacs, a flower among the flowers. Again he saw her dancing, like a wraith, in the moonlight; he saw her, in the little blue serge frock and shady hat, measuring him with her cool eyes; and again, laying plates on the flapping cloth with white hands, or racing with him against the wildness of the storm. He saw her with her fair wet braids hanging to her knees, and her slender fingers twisting among the gold. He saw her with the light of the harness-room fire upon her as she promised to be his friend.

But most of all he saw her as she had been that last night in the great library, frail and white in her floating draperies.

"You have spoiled everything," she had said.

How had he spoiled everything?

In one moment he would resolve to have it out with her. In the next he would plan to go away, to give her up, to forget her.

A few weeks ago he had not known her. He had liked many women, but had loved none. He had been heart-whole and fancy free. And now his life, his happiness, all of his future, were bound up in this little pale child with the wonderful hair!

Up and up, higher and higher. It was like the flight of an eagle.

And far below, on a porch which overhung the harbor, two women watched with beating hearts.

"Oh, why will he do it?" Sophie asked, in agonized tones. "It is so dangerous."

Bettina caught her breath. "Somehow I can't think of the danger," she said. "He isn't afraid, and to me it seems—very wonderful—as if he had wings, and could fly—straight up—to heaven——"

As Justin had thought all that week of Bettina, so she had thought of him; every moment of the day, and into the night, the vision was upon her.

Again she was held by those mocking eyes, again she was thrilled by that mad race in the rain. She saw him as he had been on the night of the yacht club dance, with his laughing air of conquest; as he had been in the great library, saying steadily, "I am your lover——"

He had gone from her, angry, that night because she would give him no explanation of her refusal to take the silver ring.

"I cannot, I cannot," she had repeated.

He had caught hold of her hands. "You are not a flirt," he had said; "you are too sweet and good for that—but what do you mean by your mysteries——Oh, why can't you tell me the truth?"

She had looked at him, dumbly, and he had rushed away, leaving her unforgiven.

She had written at once to Diana, asking to be released from her promise to keep her engagement secret. "People ought to know," was the reason she gave.

She had also telephoned to Anthony. She wanted to see him. To tell him that she would marry him as soon as he wished. That would be the solution. Then Justin would understand, and would forgive her.

She felt that more than anything in the whole wide world she wanted Justin's forgiveness.

Anthony had come, and they had gone into the library where she had talked with Justin, and Anthony, preoccupied and silent, had placed a chair for her, and had stood where Justin had stood. And she had shivered and had begged, "Sit down where I can see you."

He had taken the chair opposite her, and suddenly she had surprised herself and him by coming over to him, and slipping to her knees beside his chair, and sobbing with her face hidden.

He had lifted her in his arms, and had soothed her like a child. "What is it, dear heart?" he had demanded.

And, like a child, she had answered:

"Oh, please, let's get married right away——"

She had explained haltingly that she had been lonely since Diana went away, and unhappy. She—she missed her mother—and Diana's house wasn't her home. Sophie was dear, but, oh, it would be much better to be married as soon as she could get ready.

"And how soon will that be?" gravely.

"In a month. I think everybody should be told now."

He agreed. "Perhaps it should have been announced at once, but Diana seemed to think that it was best to wait."

"Diana doesn't know—everything."

"No, but she is wise in many things."

"Anthony?"

"Yes?"

"When we are—married, will you and Diana be just as good friends?"

"I hope that we may——"

Something in his tone had made her look up and say quickly, "Oh, I want you to be friends. You didn't think that I was jealous—of Diana?"

He had thought she might be. If she knew the truth she would surely have a right to be. But she did not know the truth.

"Why did you ask?" he probed.

"Because," feverishly, "it doesn't seem right, does it, that just because a man and a woman are married they should never have any men or women friends? There's Bobbie, for example—and—and Justin—I shan't have to be just your wife, shall I? I can have them for friends?"

"Of course." Yet even as he said it he wondered if he would care to have her allegiance divided—as his was divided. Oh, wise Diana, who had refused to be what she had no right to be, what he would not want his own wife to be, when once she was bound to him—the dear friend of another man.

"You and I," he said, "must try to be all in all to each other." Then after a pause, "Do you really love me, child?"

"Oh, yes." Again she drew a sobbing breath.

"I am such an old fellow," he said, in a troubled way, "and you are made for bright things and gay things. I wonder if you will be happy with an old tired fellow like me——"

In her simplicity she believed that his appeal was that of love, and out of the gratitude which she felt that she owed him she tried to respond.

"Oh, I do love you," she whispered, "and when we are married—we shall be happy——"

Presently she tugged at the thin chain about her neck, and brought forth the rings.

"After this I shall wear them," she said, "for all the world to see."

When Anthony went home he answered Diana's letter. He had sent her flowers on the day that she had left—her favorite violets and valley lilies. Beyond that he had made no sign.

But now he wrote:

"Oh, dear Wise Woman:

"During all the days since I received your letter I have not been able to see things as you wanted me to see them. I have raged against Fate, and have been pursued by Furies. I have shut myself away, as far as possible, from the world. At one moment I have doubted your love for me; at the next, I have resolved to follow you, play cave man, and carry you off.

"I have read and reread your letter, trying to find some weakness to which I could appeal—but I could find none. But finally, as I read, one sentence began to stand out: 'We loved those who died—fighting.' When I got into the swing of that thought it stirred me. I am going to live—fighting—perhaps I shall die—fighting——

"To-day Bettina has told me that she will marry me in a month. She says that she has written you that it is best that people should know at once. And I think that it is best. I shall try to make her happy, but if I conquer life, if I ever do any great thing or good thing or wise thing, it will be because you have shown me the way.

"You say, 'When we are old, we can be friends.' How I shall welcome old age, Diana! May the years fly swiftly!

Anthony.