"I understand perfectly. You want to get rid of me as a proof of your own sanity. Is that it?" She looked up in the utmost surprise. "Not to get rid of you, Ted, of course not. I shall still keep you as my best friend." "Thanks. You had better not try to do that. I'm told I've no talent for friendship." "Then I suppose, after this, you'd rather I cut you, if we meet?" "You can please yourself about that." "You may be sure I shall. Oh, Ted, I didn't expect that from you! But it's quite right. Hit hard, I can't defend myself." "Please don't attempt it, there's no occasion to. Only tell me one thing." "Well?" She sat down as if wearied with this unnecessary trifling. He paused. "It's evident that you don't care about _me_. Do you care for any one else?" "You've no right to ask me that." "Haven't I? I thought I had; and, if you'll only think a minute, you'll agree with me." She put her head on one side as if gravely considering the question. "No. You've no right to ask me that." "Let me put it differently--since your feelings are sacred, you needn't tell me anything about _them_. Were you engaged to Hardy before you knew me?" "That question is even more impertinent than the last." "I beg your pardon then. Don't answer it, if you don't like to." He turned away. "Don't go yet, Ted. I haven't done. Listen. I was thoughtless, I was mistaken" (Audrey was anxious to escape the imputation of a big fault by the graceful confession of a little one), "but I'm not as bad as you think me. You think I cared for Vincent. I didn't. I never cared a straw about him--never. You were the first." "Was I? Not the last though, it seems." "Perhaps not. But I deceived myself before I deceived you." "Well, you took me in completely, if it's any satisfaction to you. Never mind, Audrey; you've done your best to remedy that now." He had turned, and his hand was on the door to go, when he heard her calling him back softly. "Ted----" She had followed him to the door, he felt the touch of her little gloved hand on his coat-sleeve; under the black meshes of her veil he saw her eyes shining with tears that could not fall. He hesitated. "Forgive me," she whispered. "Not till you have answered my question." "Which question, Ted?" "The impertinent one." "About Vincent?" "Yes." Her eyes had been fixed on the ground, now they glanced up quickly. "Did Vincent tell you I was engaged to him?" "No." Her eyelids drooped again; then, urged to desperation by her own cowardice, she raised them and looked in his face to answer. And as she looked, she saw for the first time how changed it was. Its bloom was gone, the lines were set and hard: Ted looked years older than his age. "Don't believe him if he ever says so. I am not engaged to him, and I never was." "Thanks. That was all I wanted to know." He turned on his heel and left her. He knew that she had lied.