"Now, don't," she said. "That's just what you don't understand. All that's out of the picture. I know you too well. Just realize that I'm the only nice woman you know who doesn't either expect you to make love to her in the future or hate you for having done it in the past, and you'll want to see me every day. Think of the novelty of it." "I do and I do," said he, "and I won't protest any more while you're in this mood. Bear with me if I seem idiotic to-night--I've been burning old letters, and that always makes me like a funeral." "Old letters--mine?" "I burned yours long ago." "And it isn't two years since we parted! How many have there been since?" "Is this the Inquisition or is it Durand's?" "It's somewhere where we both are," she said, without a trace of sentiment; "that's good enough for me. Do you know I've been married since I saw you last? _And_ left a widow--in a short three months it all happened. And--well I'm not very clever, as you know, but--can you imagine what it is like to be married to a man who doesn't understand a single word you say, unless it's about the weather or things to eat? No, don't look shocked. He was a good fellow, and very happy till the motor accident took him and left me this." She shewed a scar on her smooth arm. "What a woman it is for surprises! So he was very happy? But of course he was." "Yes, of course, as you say. I was a model wife. I wore black for a whole year too!" "Why did you marry him?" "Well, at the time I thought you might hear of it and be disappointed, or hurt, or something." "So I am," said Vernon with truth. "You needn't be," said she. "You'll find me much nicer now I don't want to disappoint you or hurt you, but only to have a good time, and there's no nonsense about love to get in the way, and spoil everything." "So you're--But this isn't proper! Here am I dining with a lady and I don't even know her name!" "I know--I wouldn't put it to the note. Didn't that single initial arouse your suspicions? Her name? Her title if you please! I married Harry St. Craye. You remember how we used to laugh at him together." "That little--I beg your pardon, Lady St. Craye." "Yes," she said, "De mortuis nil nisi bonum: of the dead nothing but the bones. If he had lived he would certainly have beaten me. Here's to our new friendship!" "Our new friendship!" he repeated, raising his glass and looking in her eyes. Lady St. Craye looked very beautiful, and Betty was not there. In fact, just now there was no Betty. He went back to his room humming a song of Yvette Guilbert's. There might have been no flowering May, no buttercup meadows in all the world, for any thought of memory that he had of them. And Betty was a thousand miles away. That was at night. In the morning Betty was at the Hotel Bête, and the Hotel Bête was no longer a petty little hotel which he did not know and never should know. For the early post brought him a letter which said: