"Because, after all," said Vernon, "we _do_ know each other better than either of us knows anyone else in Paris. And, if you'd let me, I could put you to a thing or two in the matter of your work. After all, I've been through the mill." "It's very kind of you," said Betty, "but I'm all alone now Paula's gone, and--" "We'll respect the conventions," said Vernon gaily, "but the conventions of the Quartier Latin aren't the conventions of Clapham." "No, I know," said she, "but there's a point of honour." She paused. "There are reasons," she added, "why I ought to be more conventional than Clapham. I should like to tell you, some time, only--But I haven't got anyone to tell anything to. I wonder--" "What? What do you wonder?" Betty spoke with effort. "I know it sounds insane, but, you know my stepfather thought you--you wanted to marry me. You didn't ever, did you?" Vernon was silent: none of his habitual defences served him in this hour. "You see," Betty went on, "all that sort of thing is such nonsense. If I knew you cared about someone else everything would be so simple." "Eliminate love," said Vernon, "and the world is a simple example in vulgar fractions." "I want it to be simple addition," said Betty. "Lady St. Craye is very beautiful." "Yes," said Vernon. "Is she in love with you?" "Ask her," said Vernon, feeling like a schoolboy in an examination. "If she were--and you cared for her--then you and I could be friends: I should like to be real friends with you." "Let us be friends," said he when he had paused a moment. He made the proposal with every possible reservation. "Really?" she said. "I'm so glad." If there was a pang, Betty pretended to herself that there was none. If Vernon's conscience fluttered him he was able to soothe it; it was an art that he had studied for years. "Say, you two!" The voice of Miss Voscoe fell like a pebble into the pool of silence that was slowly widening between them. "Say--we're going to start a sketch-club for really reliable girls. We can have it here, and it'll only be one franc an hour for the model, and say six sous each for tea. Two afternoons a week. Three, five, nine of us--you'll join, Miss Desmond?" "Yes--oh, yes!" said Betty, conscientiously delighted with the idea of more work. "That makes--nine six sous and two hours model--how much is that, Mr. Temple?--I see it written on your speaking brow that you took the mathematical wranglership at Oxford College." "Four francs seventy," said Temple through the shout of laughter. "Have I said something comme il ne faut pas?" said Miss Voscoe. "You couldn't," said Vernon: "every word leaves your lips without a stain upon its character." "Won't you let us join?" asked an Irish student. "You'll be lost entirely without a Lord of Creation to sharpen your pencils." "We mean to _work_," said Miss Voscoe; "if you want to work take a box of matches and a couple of sticks of brimstone and make a little sketch class of your own."