She walked steadily on, down the boulevard. She would dine at some place she had never been to before. A sickening vision of that first night in Paris swam before her. She saw again the Café d'Harcourt, heard the voices of the women who had spoken to Paula, saw the eyes of the men who had been the companions of those women. In that rout the face of Temple shone--clear cut, severe. She remembered the instant resentment that had thrilled her at his protective attitude, remembered it and wondered at it a little. She would not have felt that now. She knew her Paris better than she had done then. And with the thought, the face of Temple came towards her out of the crowd. He raised his hat in response to her frigid bow, and had almost passed her, when she spoke on an impulse that surprised herself. "Oh--Mr. Temple!" He stopped and turned. "I was looking for a place to dine. I'm tired of Garnier's and Thirion's." He hesitated. And he, too, remembered the night at the Café d'Harcourt, when she had disdained his advice and gone back to take the advice of Paula. He caught himself assuring himself that a man need not be ashamed to risk being snubbed--making a fool of himself even--if he could do any good. So he said: "You know I have horrid old-fashioned ideas about women," and stopped short. "Don't you know of any good quiet place near here?" said Betty. "I think women ought to be taken care of. But some of them--Miss Desmond, I'm so afraid of you--I'm afraid of boring you--" Remorse stirred her. "You've always been most awfully kind," she said warmly. "I've often wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about that first time I saw you--I'm not sorry for what I _did_," she added in haste; "I can never be anything but glad for that. But I'm sorry I seemed ungrateful to you." "Now you give me courage," he said. "I do know a quiet little place quite near here. And, as you haven't any of your friends with you, won't you take pity on me and let me dine with you?" "You're sure you're not giving up some nice engagement--just to--to be kind to me?" she asked. And the forlornness of her tone made him almost forget that he had half promised to join a party of Lady St. Craye's. "I should like to come with you--I should like it of all things," he said; and he said it convincingly. They dined together, and the dinner was unexpectedly pleasant to both of them. They talked of England, of wood, field and meadow, and Betty found herself talking to him of the garden at home and of the things that grew there, as she had talked to Paula, and as she had never talked to Vernon.