"You?" she said, "_you_?" The two words are spelled alike. Spoken, they are capable of infinite variations. The first "you" sent Vernon's blood leaping. The second froze it to what it had been before he met her. For indeed that little unfinished idyll had been almost forgotten by the man who sat drinking Vermouth outside the Café de la Paix. "How are you?" he whispered. "Won't you shake hands?" She gave him a limp and unresponsive glove. "I had almost forgotten you," she said, "but I am glad to see you--because--Come to the door. I don't like talking in churches." They stood on the steps behind one of the great pillars. "Do you think it is wise to stand here?" he said. "Your aunt might see us." "So you followed us in?" said Betty with perfect self-possession. "That was very kind. I have often wished to see you, to tell you how much obliged I am for all your kindness in the Spring. I was only a child then, and I didn't understand, but now I quite see how good it was of you." "Why do you talk like that?" he said. "You don't think--you can't think it was my fault?" "Your fault! What?" "Why, your father finding us and--" "Oh, _that_!" she said lightly. "Oh, I had forgotten that! Ridiculous, wasn't it? No, I mean your kindness in giving so many hours to teaching a perfect duffer. Well, now I've seen you and said what I had to say, I think I'll go back." "No, don't go," he said. "I want to know--oh, all sorts of things! I can see your aunt from afar, and fly if she approaches." "You don't suppose," said Betty, opening her eyes at him, "that I shan't tell her I've seen you?" He had supposed it, and cursed his clumsiness. "Ah, I see," she went on, "you think I should deceive my aunt now because I deceived my step-father in the Spring. But I was a child then,--and besides, I'm fond of my aunt." "Did you know that she came to see me?" "Of course. You seem to think we live in an atmosphere of deceit, Mr. Vernon." "What's the matter with you?" he said bluntly, for finer weapons seemed useless. "What have I done to make you hate me?" "I hate you? Oh, no--not in the least," said Betty spitefully. "I am very grateful to you for all your kindness." "Where are you staying?" he asked. "Hotel Bête," said Betty, off her guard, "but--" The "but" marked his first score. "I wish I could have called to see your aunt," he said carelessly, "but I am off to Vienna to-morrow." Betty believed that she did not change countenance by a hair's breadth. "I hope you'll have a delightful time," she said politely. "Thanks. I am sure I shall. The only consolation for leaving Paris is that one is going to Vienna. Are you here for long?" "I don't know." Betty was on her guard again. "Paris is a delightful city, isn't it?" "Most charming." "Have you been here long?" "No, not very long." "Are you still working at your painting? It would be a pity to give that up." "I am not working just now."