The neatest little Crémerie; white paint, green walls stenciled with fat white geraniums. On each small table a vase of green Bruges ware or Breton pottery holding not a crushed crowded bouquet, but one single flower--a pink tulip, a pink carnation, a pink rose. On the desk from behind which the Proprietress ruled her staff, enormous pink peonies in a tall pot of Grez de Flandre. Behind the desk Paula Conway, incredibly neat and business-like, her black hair severely braided, her plain black gown fitting a figure grown lean as any grey-hound's, her lace collar a marvel of fine laundry work. Dapper-waisted waitresses in black, with white aprons, served the customers. Vernon was served by Madame herself. The clientele formed its own opinion of the cause of this, her only such condescension. "Well, and how's trade?" he asked over his asparagus. "Trade's beautiful," Paula answered, with the frank smile that Betty had seen, only once or twice, and had loved very much: "if trade will only go on behaving like this for another six weeks my cruel creditor will be paid every penny of the money that launched me." Her eyes dwelt on him with candid affection. "Your cruel creditor's not in any hurry," he said. "By the way, I suppose you've not heard anything of Miss Desmond?" "How could I? You know you made me write that she wasn't to write." "I didn't _make_ you write anything." "You approved. But anyway she hasn't my address. Why?" "She's gone away: and she also has left no address." "You don't think?--Oh, no--nothing _could_ have happened to her!" "No, no," he hastened to say. "I expect her father sent for her, or fetched her." "The best thing too," said Paula. "I always wondered he let her come." "Yes,"--Vernon remembered how little Paula knew. "Oh, yes, she's probably gone home." "Look here," said Miss Conway very earnestly; "there wasn't any love business between you and her, was there?" "No," he answered strongly. "I was always afraid of that. Do you know--if you don't mind, when I've really paid my cruel creditor everything, I should like to write and tell her what he's done for me. I should like her to know that she really _did_ save me--and how. Because if it hadn't been for her you'd never have thought of helping me. Do you think I might?" "It could do no harm," said Vernon after a silent moment. "You'd really like her to know you're all right. You _are_ all right?" "I'm right; as I never thought I could be ever again." "Well, you needn't exaggerate the little services of your cruel creditor. Come to think of it, you needn't name him. Just say it was a man you knew." But when Paula came to write the letter that was not just what she said. Book 4.--The Other Man CHAPTER XXI. THE FLIGHT.