"It's so lovely all the year," she said. "When the last mignonette's over, there are the chrysanthemums, and then the Christmas roses, and ever so early in January the winter aconite and the snow-drops, and the violets under the south wall. And then the little green daffodil leaves come up and the buds, though it's weeks before they turn into flowers. And if it's a mild winter the primroses--just little baby ones--seem to go on all the time." "Yes," he said, "I know. And the wallflowers, they're green all the time.--And the monthly roses, they flower at Christmas. And then when the real roses begin to bud--and when June comes--and you're drunk with the scent of red roses--the kind you always long for at Christmas." "Oh, yes," said Betty--"do you feel like that too? And if you get them, they're soft limp-stalked things, like caterpillars half disguised as roses by some incompetent fairy. Not like the stiff solid heavy velvet roses with thick green leaves and heaps of thorns. Those are the roses one longs for." "Yes," he said. "Those are the roses one longs for." And an odd pause punctuated the sentence. But the pause did not last. There was so much to talk of--now that barrier of resentment, wattled with remorse, was broken down. It was an odd revelation to each--the love of the other for certain authors, certain pictures, certain symphonies, certain dramas. The discovery of this sort of community of tastes is like the meeting in far foreign countries of a man who speaks the tongue of one's mother land. The two lingered long over their coffee, and the "Grand Marnier" which their liking for "The Garden of Lies" led to their ordering. Betty had forgotten Vernon, forgotten Lady St. Craye, in the delightful interchange of: "Oh, I do like--" "And don't you like--?" "And isn't that splendid?" These simple sentences, interchanged, took on the value of intimate confidences. "I've had such a jolly time," Temple said. "I haven't had such a talk for ages." And yet all the talk had been mere confessions of faith--in Ibsen, in Browning, in Maeterlinck, in English gardens, in Art for Art's sake, and in Whistler and Beethoven. "I've liked it too," said Betty. "And it's awfully jolly," he went on, "to feel that you've forgiven me"--the speech suddenly became difficult,--"at least I mean to say--" he ended lamely. "It's I who ought to be forgiven," said Betty. "I'm very glad I met you. I've enjoyed our talk ever so much." Vernon spent an empty evening, and waylaid Betty as she left her class next day. "I'm sorry," she said. "I couldn't help it. I suddenly felt I wanted something different. So I dined at a new place." "Alone?" said Vernon. "No," said Betty with her chin in the air. Vernon digested, as best he might, his first mouthful of jealousy--real downright sickening jealousy. The sensation astonished him so much that he lacked the courage to dissect it. "Will you dine with me to-night?" was all he found to say.