"I've tried all I know. You can save a woman who doesn't know where she's going. Not one who knows and means to go. Besides, she's been at it six months; she's past reclaiming now." "I wonder," said Vernon--and his sneer had gone and he looked ten years younger--"I wonder whether anybody's past reclaiming? Do you think I am? Or you?" The other stared at him. "Well," Vernon's face aged again instantly, "the thing is: we've got to find the woman." "To get her to go back and live with that innocent girl?" "Lord--no! To find her. To find out why she bolted, and to make certain that she won't go back and live with that innocent girl. Do you know her address?" But she was not to be found at her address. She had come back, paid her bill, and taken away her effects. It was at the Café d'Harcourt, after all, that they found her, one of a party of four. She nodded to them, and presently left her party and came to spread her black and white flounces at their table. "What's the best news with you?" she asked gaily. "It's a hundred years since I saw you, Bobby, and at least a million since I saw your friend." "The last time I saw you," Temple said, "was the night when you asked me to take care of a girl." "So it was! And did you?" "No," said Temple; "she wouldn't let me. She went back to you." "So you've seen her again? Oh, I see--you've come to ask me what I meant by daring to contaminate an innocent girl by my society?--Well, you can go to Hell, and ask there." She rose, knocking over a chair. "Don't go," said Vernon. "That's not what we want to ask." "'_We_' too," she turned fiercely on him: "as if you were a king or a deputation." "One and one _are_ two," said Vernon; "and I did very much want to talk to you." "And two are company." She had turned her head away. "You aren't going to be cruel," Vernon asked. "Well, send him off then. I won't be bullied by a crowd of you." Temple took off his hat and went. "I've got an appointment. I've no time for fool talk," she said. "Sit down," said Vernon. "First I want to thank you for the care you've taken of Miss Desmond, and for all your kindness and goodness to her." "Oh!" was all Paula could say. She had expected something so different. "I don't see what business it is of yours, though," she added next moment. "Only that she's alone here, and I'm the only person she knows in Paris. And I know, much better than she does, all that you've done for her sake." "I did it for my own sake. It was no end of a lark," said Paula eagerly, "that little dull pious life. And all the time I used to laugh inside to think what a sentimental fool she was." "Yes," said Vernon slowly, "it must have been amusing for you." "I just did it for the fun of the thing. But I couldn't stand it any longer, so I just came away. I was bored to death."