"Easter?" said Vernon, refusing interest to the maroon and blue tea-cups. "She must indeed have been extravagantly fond of me." "Not she! She wanted to be in love. We all do, you know. And you were the first. But she'd never have suited you. I've never known but two women who would." "Two?" he said. "Which?" "Myself for one, saving your presence." She laughed and finished her coffee. "If I'd happened to meet you when I was young--and not bad-looking. It's only my age that keeps you from falling in love with me. The other one's the Queen of your suit, poor lady, that you sent the haystack of sunflowers to. Well--Good-bye. Come and see me when you're in town--97 Curzon Street; don't forget." "I shan't forget," he said; "and if I thought you would condescend to look at me, it isn't what you call your age that would keep me from falling in love with you." "Heaven defend me!" she cried. "_Au revoir_." * * * * * When Vernon had finished his Vermouth, he strolled along to the street where last year Lady St. Craye had had a flat. Yes--Madame retained still the apartment. It was to-day that Madame received. But the last of the friends of Madame had departed. Monsieur would find Madame alone. Monsieur found Madame alone, and reading. She laid the book face downwards on the table and held out the hand he had always loved--slender, and loosely made, that one felt one could so easily crush in one's own. "How time flies," she said. "It seems only yesterday that you were here. How sweet you were to me when I had influenza. How are you? You look very tired." "I am tired," he said. "I have been in Spain. And in Italy. And in Algiers." "Very fatiguing countries, I understand. And what is your best news?" He stood on the hearth-rug, looking down at her. "Betty Desmond's married," he said. "Yes," she answered, "to that nice boy Temple, too. I saw it in the paper. Dreadful isn't it? Here to-day and gone to-morrow!" "I'll tell you why she married him," said Vernon, letting himself down into a chair, "if you'd like me to. At least I'll tell you why she didn't marry me. But perhaps the subject has ceased to interest you?" "Not at all," she answered with extreme politeness. So he told her. "Yes, I suppose it would be like that. It must have annoyed you very much. It's left marks on your face, Eustace. You look tired to death." "That sort of thing does leave marks." "That girl taught you something, Eustace; something that's stuck." "It is not impossible, I suppose," he said and then very carelessly, as one leading the talk to lighter things, he added: "I suppose you wouldn't care to marry me?" "Candidly," she answered, calling all her powers of deception to her aid, "candidly, I don't think I should." "I knew it," said Vernon, smiling; "my heart told me so."