Vane stopped in his walk to look at her. "You mean that you love some one else?" Miss Thomas bent her head a hair's breadth. "Yes," said she, simply. "Who is it?" "Mr. Ten Eyck." "Are you engaged to him?" "No." "Have you told him?" "No." "When are you going to tell him?" "In a day or two." Vane gave a heavy sigh. Miss Thomas sank in a chair, looking at the fire, the handkerchief still in her hand. "I thank you for telling me first," said Vane. He turned to go. "You have forgotten your handkerchief," said she. Vane went back to get it, avoiding the touch of her hand. Then he turned again, and the outer door closed behind him, Miss Thomas still looking at the fire. It was a rainy night and there had been snow previously. As Vane crossed Fifth Avenue he threw the handkerchief into a pool of mire. He went to his lodgings to shave and dress for dinner. His hand trembled, and it seemed to him that he was very angry. He took dinner at his club, and smoked a cigar afterward with a friend, and drank a bottle of Burgundy. "What has become of Ten Eyck this last month?" asked Vane, carelessly, in the course of the evening. "He's been at Newport lately," said the other. "He's just got back." Vane went to bed rather early and slept heavily. It was unusual for him to take so much wine. But he did not dream of Miss Thomas. In the morning he felt that he had got over it, and he walked down-town to his office. It was a clear winter's day, sharp and bright. They were closing up the banking accounts for the year, and he worked hard all the morning. He might now call himself very rich. He was an infinitely better match than Ten Eyck. She must have loved him all along--from the very beginning, thought he. He was very indignant with her. But in the afternoon, even this feeling seemed to grow less strong. She was a woman, after all. He could not blame her. He had been angry last night, but now he felt that he could understand her. He almost liked her the better for it. She had been true to herself and her first love. He might have wished the same thing himself. Vane almost felt a pride in his discovery of her nature. He had called her a woman from the beginning. It was the fashion to decry American girls. She was different from a girl. She was a true woman--a woman like Cleopatra or like Helen. Had he first won her, she would have been true to him. He argued savagely with himself, defending her.