"I see," she said slowly. "Well, there's no great harm done. But I wish you'd trusted me before. You wanted to know, at the beginning of this remarkable interview," she laughed rather forlornly, "what I had told Miss Desmond. Well, I went to see her, and when she told me that you'd told her you were engaged to me, I--I just acted the jealous a little bit. I thought I was helping you--playing up to you. I suppose I overdid it. I'm sorry." "The question is," said he anxiously, "whether she'll forgive me for that lie. She's most awfully straight, you know." "She seems to have lied herself," Lady St. Craye could not help saying. "Ah, yes--but only to her father." "That hardly counts, you think?" "It's not the same thing as lying to the person you love. I wish--I wonder whether you'd mind if I never told her it was a lie? Couldn't I tell her that we were engaged but you've broken it off? That you found you liked Temple better, or something?" She gasped before the sudden vision of the naked gigantic egotism of a man in love. "You can tell her what you like," she said wearily: "a lie or two more or less--what does it matter?" "I don't want to lie to her," said Vernon. "I hate to. But she'd never understand the truth." "You think _I_ understand? It _is_ the truth you've been telling me?" He laughed. "I don't think I ever told so much truth in all my life." "And you've thoroughly enjoyed it! You alway did enjoy new sensations!" "Ah, don't sneer at me. You don't understand--not quite. Everything's changed. I really do feel as though I'd been born again. The point of view has shifted--and so suddenly, so completely. It's a new Heaven and a new earth. But the new earth's not comfortable, and I don't suppose I shall ever get the new Heaven. But you'll help me--you'll advise me? Do you think I ought to tell her at once? You see, she's so different from other girls--she's--" "She isn't," Lady St. Craye interrupted, "except that she's the one you love; she's not a bit different from other girls. No girl's different from other girls." "Ah, you don't know her," he said. "You see, she's so young and brave and true and--what is it--Why--" Lady St. Craye had rested her head against his coat-sleeve and he knew that she was crying. "What is it? My dear, don't--you musn't cry." "I'm not.--At least I'm very tired." "Brute that I am!" he said with late compunction. "And I've been worrying you with all my silly affairs. Cheer up,--and smile at me before I go! Of course you're tired!" His hand on her soft hair held her head against his arm. "No," she said suddenly, "it isn't that I'm tired, really. You've told the truth,--why shouldn't I?" Vernon instantly and deeply regretted the lapse. "You're really going to marry the girl? You mean it?" "Yes." "Then I'll help you. I'll do everything I can for you." "You're a dear," he said kindly. "You always were."