He read the letter, re-read it, raised his eyebrows. Then he took two turns across the studio, shrugged his shoulders impatiently, lit a match and watched the letter burn. As the last yellow moving sparks died in the black of its ash, he bit his lip. "Damn," he said, "oh, damn!" Next day he went to Spain. A bunch of roses bigger and redder than any roses he had ever sent her came to Lady St. Craye with his card--p.d.a. in the corner. She, too, shrugged her shoulders, bit her lip and--arranged the roses in water. Presently she tried to take up her life at the point where she had laid it down when, last October, Vernon had taken it into his hands. Succeeding as one does succeed in such enterprises. It was May again when Vernon found himself once more sitting at one of the little tables in front of the Café de la Paix. "Sit here long enough," he said, "and you see every one you have ever known or ever wanted to know. Last year it was the jasmine lady--and that girl--on the same one and wonderful day. This year it's--by Jove!" He rose and moved among the closely set chairs and tables to the pavement. The sightless stare of light-blanched spectacles met his eyes. A gentlemanly-looking lady in short skirts stood awaiting him. "How are you?" she said. "Yes, I know you didn't see me, but I thought you'd like to." "I do like to, indeed. May I walk with you--or--" he glanced back at the table where his Vermouth stood untasted. "The impertinence of it! Frightfully improper to sit outside cafés, isn't it?--for women, I mean--and this Café in particular. Yes, I'll join you with the greatest pleasure. Coffee please." "It's ages since I saw you," he said amiably, "not since--" "Since I called on you at your hotel. How frightened you were!" "Not for long," he answered, looking at her with the eyes she loved, the eyes of someone who was not Vernon--"Ah, me, a lot of water has run--" "Not under the bridges," she pleaded: "say off the umbrellas." "Since," he pursued, "we had that good talk. You remember, I wanted to call on you in London and you wouldn't let me. You might let me now." "I will," she said. "97 Curzon Street. Your eyes haven't changed colour a bit. Nor your nature, I suppose. Yet something about you's changed. Got over Betty yet?" "Quite, thanks," he said tranquilly. "But last time we met, you remember we agreed that I had no intentions." [Illustration: "The next morning; brought him a letter"] "Wrong lead," she said, smiling frankly at him; "and besides I hold all the trumps. Ace, King, Queen; and Ace, Knave and Queen of another suit." "Expound, I implore." "Aces equal general definite and decisive information. King and Queen of hearts equal Betty and the other man." "There was another man then?" "There always is, isn't there? Knave--your honoured self. Queen--where is the Queen, by the way,--the beautiful Queen with the sad eyes, blind, poor dear, quite blind to everything but the abominable Knave?" "Meaning me?"