Here they sat silent, and he fanned her, and he assured himself once more that she was more beautiful than ever. Her hair, which he had known in short, fluffy curls, lay in soberly waved masses, but it was still bright and dark, like a chestnut fresh from the husk. Her eyes were the same as of old, and her hands. Her mouth only had changed. It was a sad mouth now, in repose--and he had known it so merry. Yet he could not but see that its sadness added to its beauty. The lower lip had been, perhaps, too full, too flexible. It was set now, not in sternness, but in a dignified self-control. He had left a Greuze girl--he found a Madonna of Bellini. Yet those were the lips he had kissed--the eyes that-- The silence had grown to the point of embarrassment. She broke it, with his eyes on her. "Well," she said, "tell me all about yourself." "There's nothing much to tell. My cousin's dead, and I'm a full-fledged squire with estates and things. I've done with the gorgeous East, thank God! But you--tell me about yourself." "What shall I tell you?" She had taken the fan from him, and was furling and unfurling it. "Tell me"--he repeated the words slowly--"tell me the truth! It's all over--nothing matters now. But I've always been--well--curious. Tell me why you threw me over!" He yielded, without even the form of a struggle, to the impulse which he only half understood. What he said was true: he _had_ been--well--curious. But it was long since anything alive, save vanity, which is immortal, had felt the sting of that curiosity. But now, sitting beside this beautiful woman who had been so much to him, the desire to bridge over the years, to be once more in relations with her outside the conventionalities of a ball-room, to take part with her in some scene, discreet, yet flavoured by the past with a delicate poignancy, came upon him like a strong man armed. It held him, but through a veil, and he did not see its face. If he had seen it, it would have shocked him very much. "Tell me," he said softly, "tell me now--at last--" Still she was silent. "Tell me," he said again; "why did you do it? How was it you found out so very suddenly and surely that we weren't suited to each other--that was the phrase, wasn't it?" "Do you really want to know? It's not very amusing, is it--raking out dead fires?" "Yes, I do want to know. I've wanted it every day since," he said earnestly. "As you say--it's all ancient history. But you used not to be stupid. Are you sure the real reason never occurred to you?" "Never! What was it? Yes, I know: the next waltz is beginning. Don't go. Cut him, whoever he is, and stay here and tell me. I think I have a right to ask that of you." "Oh--rights!" she said. "But it's quite simple. I threw you over, as you call it, because I found out you didn't care for me." "_I_--not care for _you_?" "Exactly."