Vernon was not fond of talking over old times, but Betty would be dining at the Hotel Bête--some dull hole, no doubt; he had never heard of it. Well, he could not dine at the Bête, and after all one must dine somewhere. And the other woman had never bored him. That is a terrible weapon in the hands of a rival. And Betty had been most unjust. And what was Betty to him, anyway? His thoughts turned to the American girl who had sketched with him in Brittany that Summer. Ah, if she had not been whisked back to New York by her people, it would not now be a question of Betty or of the Jasmine lady. He took out Miss Van Tromp's portrait and sat looking at it: it was admirable, the fearless poise of the head, the laughing eyes, the full pouting lips. Then Betty's face and the face of the Jasmine lady came between him and Miss Van Tromp. "Bah," he said, "smell, kiss, wear--at last throw away. Never keep a rose till it's faded." A little tide of Breton memories swept through him. "Bah," he said again, "she was perfectly charming, but what is the use of charm, half the world away?" He pulled his trunk from the front of the fire-place, pushed up the iron damper, and made a little fire. He burned all Miss Van Tromp's letters, and her photograph--but, from habit, or from gratitude, he kissed it before he burned it. "Now," said he as the last sparks died redly on the black embers, "the decks are cleared for action. Shall I sentimentalise about Betty--cold, cruel, changed Betty--or shall I call for the Jasmine lady?" He did both, and the Jasmine lady might have found him dull. As it happened, she only found him _distrait_, and that interested her. "When we parted," she said, "it was I who was in tears. Now it's you. What is it?" "If I am in tears," he roused himself to say, "it is only because everything passes, 'tout lasse, tout passe, tout casse.'" "What's broken now?" she asked; "another heart? Oh, yes! you broke mine all to little, little bits. But I've mended it. I wanted frightfully to see you to thank you! "This is a grateful day for women," thought Vernon, looking the interrogatory. "Why, for showing me how hearts are broken," she explained; "it's quite easy when you know how, and it's a perfectly delightful game. I play it myself now, and I can't imagine how I ever got on before I learned the rules." "You forget," he said, smiling. "It was you who broke my heart. And it's not mended yet." "That's very sweet of you. But really, you know, I'm very glad it was you who broke my heart, and not anyone else. Because, now it's mended, that gives us something to talk about. We have a past. That's really what I wanted to tell you. And that's such a bond, isn't it? When it really _is_ past--dead, you know, no nonsense about cataleptic trances, but stone dead." "Yes," he said, "it is a link. But it isn't the past for me, you know. It can never--" She held up a pretty jewelled hand.