"It's not an unbecoming cap," she said, stirring her coffee, "and you wear it with an air. Where's the Queen of your suit?" "I confess I'm at fault." "The odd trick is mine. And the honours. You may as well throw down your hand. Yes. I play whist. Not bridge. Where is your Queen--Lady St.--what is it?" "I haven't seen her," he said steadily, "since last June. I left Paris on a sudden impulse, and I hadn't time to say good-bye to her." "Didn't you even leave a card? That's not like your eyes." "I think I sent a tub of hydrangeas or something, _pour dire adieu_." "That was definite. Remember the date?" "No," he said, remembering perfectly. "Not the eleventh, was it? That was the day when you would get Betty's letter of rejection." "It may have been the eleventh.--In fact it _was_." "Ah, that's better! And the tenth--who let you out of your studio on the tenth? I've often wondered." "I've often wondered who locked me in. It couldn't have been you, of course?" "As you say. But I was there." "It wasn't--?" "But it was. I thought you'd guess that. She got your letter and came up ready to fall into your arms--opened the door softly like any heroine of fiction--I told her to knock--but no: beheld the pink silk picture and fled the happy shore forever." "Damn!" he said. "I do beg your pardon, but really--" "Don't waste those really convincing damns on ancient history. I told her it didn't mean that you didn't love her." "That was clear-sighted of you." "It was also quite futile. She said it means _she_ didn't love _you_ at any rate. I suppose she wrote and told you so." A long pause. Then: "As you say," said Vernon, "it's ancient history. But you said something about another man." "Oh, yes--your friend Temple.--Say 'damn' again if it's the slightest comfort to you--I've heard worse words." "When?" asked Vernon, and he sipped his Vermouth; "not straight away?" "Bless me, no! Months and months. That picture in your studio gave her the distaste for all men for quite a long time. We took her home, her father and me: by the way, he and she are tremendous chums now." "Well?" "You don't want me to tell you the sweet secret tale of their betrothal? He just came down--at Christmas it was. She was decorating the church. Her father had a transient gleam of common sense and sent him down to her. 'Is it you?' 'Is it you?'--All was over! They returned to that Rectory an engaged couple. They were made for each other.--Same tastes, same sentiments. They love the same things--gardens scenery, the simple life, lofty ideals, cathedrals and Walt Whitman." "And when are they to be married?" "They are married. 'What are we waiting for, you and I?' No, I don't know which of them said it. They were married at Easter: Sunday-school children throwing cowslips--quite idyllic. All the old ladies from the Mother's Mutual Twaddle Club came and shed fat tears. They presented a tea-set; maroon with blue roses--most 'igh class and select."