"Yes," he said, "you must have been. Just playing at cooking and housework, reading aloud to her while she drew--yes, she told me that. And the flowers and all her little trumpery odds and ends about. Awfully amusing it must have been." "Don't," said Paula. "And to have her loving you and trusting you as she did--awfully comic, wasn't it? Calling you her girl-friend--" "Shut up, will you?" "And thinking she had created a new heaven and a new earth for you. Silly sentimental little school-girl!" "Will you hold your tongue?" "So long, Lottie," cried the girl of her party; "we're off to the Bullier. You've got better fish to fry, I see." "Yes," said Paula with sudden effrontery; "perhaps we'll look in later." The others laughed and went. "Now," she said, turning furiously on Vernon, "will you go? Or shall I? I don't want any more of you." "Just one word more," he said with the odd change of expression that made him look young. "Tell me why you left her. She's crying her eyes out for you." "Why I left her? Because I was sick of--" "Don't. Let me tell you. You went with her because she was alone and friendless. You found her rooms, you set her in the way of making friends. And when you saw that she was in a fair way to be happy and comfortable, you came away, because--" "Because?" she leaned forward eagerly. "Because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Afraid of handicapping her. You knew you would meet people who knew you. You gave it all up--all the new life, the new chances--for her sake, and came away. Do I understand? Is it fool-talk?" Paula leaned her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands. "You're not like most men," she said; "you make me out better than I am. That's not the usual mistake. Yes, it _was_ all that, partly. And I should have liked to stay--for ever and ever--if I could. But suppose I couldn't? Suppose I'd begun to find myself wishing for--all sorts of things, longing for them. Suppose I'd stayed till I began to think of things that I _wouldn't_ think of while _she_ was with me. _That's_ what I was afraid of." "And you didn't long for the old life at all?" She laughed. "Long for that? But I might have. I might have. It was safer.--Well, go back to her and tell her I've gone to the devil and it's not her fault. Tell her I wasn't worth saving. But I did try to save her. If you're half a man you won't undo my one little bit of work." "What do you mean?" "You know well enough what I mean. Let the girl alone." He leaned forward, and spoke very earnestly. "Look here," he said, "I won't jaw. But this about you and her--well, it's made a difference to me that I can't explain. And I wouldn't own that to anyone but _her_ friend. I mean to be a friend to her too, a good friend. No nonsense." "Swear it by God in Heaven," she said fiercely. "I do swear it," he said, "by God in Heaven. And I can't tell her you've gone to the devil. You must write to her. And you can't tell her that either."