THE INCOMPLETE AMORIST

By E. NESBIT

Illustrated by CLARENCE F. UNDERWOOD

1906

To

Richard ReynoldsandJustus Miles Forman

"Faire naitre un désir, le nourrir, le développer, le grandir, lesatisfaire, c'est un poeme tout entier. "

--_Balzac_. 

CONTENTS

BOOK I. THE GIRL

Chapter I. The InevitableChapter II. The IrresistibleChapter III. VoluntaryChapter IV. InvoluntaryChapter V. The PrisonerChapter VI. The CriminalChapter VII. The Escape

BOOK II. THE MAN

Chapter VIII. The One and the OtherChapter IX. The OpportunityChapter X. Seeing LifeChapter XI. The ThoughtChapter XII. The RescueChapter XIII. ContrastsChapter XIV. Renunciation

BOOK III. THE OTHER WOMAN

Chapter XV. On Mount ParnassusChapter XVI. "Love and Tupper"Chapter XVII. InterventionsChapter XVIII. The TruthChapter XIX. The Truth with a VengeanceChapter XX. Waking-up Time

BOOK IV. THE OTHER MAN

Chapter XXI. The FlightChapter XXII. The LunaticChapter XXIII. TemperaturesChapter XXIV. The ConfessionalChapter XXV. The ForestChapter XXVI. The MiracleChapter XXVII. The Pink Silk StoryChapter XXVIII. "And so--"

PEOPLE OF THE STORY

Eustace Vernon. The Incomplete AmoristBetty Desmond The GirlThe Rev. Cecil Underwood Her Step-FatherMiss Julia Desmond Her AuntRobert Temple The Other ManLady St. Craye The Other WomanMiss Voscoe The Art StudentMadame Chevillon. The Inn-Keeper at CrezPaula Conway A Soul in HellMimi Chantal A ModelVillage Matrons, Concierges, Art Students, Etc. 

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"'Oh, what a pity, ' said Betty from the heart, 'that we aren'tintroduced now!'"

"'Ah, don't be cross!' she said. "

"Betty stared at him coldly. "

"Betty looked nervously around--the scene was agitatingly unfamiliar. "

"Unfinished, but a disquieting likeness. "

"'No, thank you: it's all done now. '"

"On the further arm of the chair sat, laughing also, a very prettyyoung woman. "

"The next morning brought him a letter. "

Book 1. --The Girl

CHAPTER I. 

THE INEVITABLE. 

"No. The chemises aren't cut out. I haven't had time. There are enoughshirts to go on with, aren't there, Mrs. James?" said Betty. 

"We can make do for this afternoon, Miss, but the men they're gettingblowed out with shirts. It's the children's shifts as we can't makeshift without much longer. " Mrs. James, habitually doleful, punctuatedher speech with sniffs. 

"That's a joke, Mrs. James, " said Betty. "How clever you are!"

"I try to be what's fitting, " said Mrs. James, complacently. 

"Talk of fitting, " said Betty, "If you like I'll fit on that blackbodice for you, Mrs. Symes. If the other ladies don't mind waiting forthe reading a little bit. "

"I'd as lief talk as read, myself, " said a red-faced sandy-hairedwoman; "books ain't what they was in my young days. "

"If it's the same to you, Miss, " said Mrs. Symes in a thick richvoice, "I'll not be tried on afore a room full. If we are poor we canall be clean's what I say, and I keeps my unders as I keeps myoutside. But not before persons as has real imitation lace on theirpetticoat bodies. I see them when I was a-nursing her with her fourth. No, Miss, and thanking you kindly, but begging your pardon all thesame. "

"Don't mention it, " said Betty absently. "Oh, Mrs. Smith, you can'thave lost your thimble already. Why what's that you've got in yourmouth?"

"So it is!" Mrs. Smith's face beamed at the gratifying coincidence. "Italways was my habit, from a child, to put things there for safety. "

"These cheap thimbles ain't fit to put in your mouth, no more thancoppers, " said Mrs. James, her mouth full of pins. 

"Oh, nothing hurts you if you like it, " said Betty recklessly. She hadbeen reading the works of Mr. G. K. Chesterton. 

A shocked murmur arose. 

"Oh, Miss, what about the publy kows?" said Mrs. Symes heavily. Theothers nodded acquiescence. 

"Don't you think we might have a window open?" said Betty. The Maysunshine beat on the schoolroom windows. The room, crowded with thestout members of the "Mother's Meeting and Mutual Clothing Club, " wasstuffy, unbearable. 

A murmur arose far more shocked than the first. 

"I was just a-goin' to say why not close the door, that being whatdoors is made for, after all, " said Mrs. Symes. "I feel a sort ofdraught a-creeping up my legs as it is. "

The door was shut. 

"You can't be too careful, " said the red-faced woman; "we never knowwhat a chill mayn't bring forth. My cousin's sister-in-law, she hadtwins, and her aunt come in and says she, 'You're a bit stuffy here, ain't you?' and with that she opens the window a crack, --not meaningno harm, Miss, --as it might be you. And within a year that poorunfortunate woman she popped off, when least expected. Gas ulsters, the doctor said. Which it's what you call chills, if you're a doctorand can't speak plain. "

"My poor grandmother come to her end the same way, " said Mrs. Smith, "only with her it was the Bible reader as didn't shut the door throughbeing so set on shewing off her reading. And my granny, a clot ofblood went to her brain, and her brain went to her head and she was acorpse inside of fifty minutes. "

Every woman in the room was waiting, feverishly alert, for the pausethat should allow her to begin her own detailed narrative of disease. 

Mrs. James was easily first in the competition. 

"Them quick deaths, " she said, "is sometimes a blessing in disguise toboth parties concerned. My poor husband--years upon years he lingered, and he had a bad leg--talk of bad legs, I wish you could all have seenit, " she added generously. 

"Was it the kind that keeps all on a-breaking out?" asked Mrs. Symeshastily, "because my youngest brother had a leg that nothing couldn'tstop. Break out it would do what they might. I'm sure the bandagesI've took off him in a morning--"

Betty clapped her hands. 

It was the signal that the reading was going to begin, and the matronslooked at her resentfully. What call had people to start reading whenthe talk was flowing so free and pleasant?

Betty, rather pale, began: "This is a story about a little boy calledWee Willie Winkie. "

"I call that a silly sort of name, " whispered Mrs. Smith. 

"Did he make a good end, Miss?" asked Mrs. James plaintively. 

"You'll see, " said Betty. 

"I like it best when they dies forgiving of everybody and singinghymns to the last. "

"And when they says, 'Mother, I shall meet you 'ereafter in the betterland'--that's what makes you cry so pleasant. "

"Do you want me to read or not?" asked Betty in desperation. 

"Yes, Miss, yes, " hummed the voices heavy and shrill. 

"It's her hobby, poor young thing, " whispered Mrs. Smith, "we all 'as'em. My own is a light cake to my tea, and always was. Ush. "

Betty read. 

When the mothers had wordily gone, she threw open the windows, proppedthe door wide with a chair, and went to tea. She had it alone. 

"Your Pa's out a-parishing, " said Letitia, bumping down the tray infront of her. 

"That's a let-off anyhow, " said Betty to herself, and she propped up aStevenson against the tea-pot. 

After tea parishioners strolled up by ones and twos and threes tochange their books at the Vicarage lending library. The books werecovered with black calico, and smelt of rooms whose windows were neveropened. 

When she had washed the smell of the books off, she did her hair verycarefully in a new way that seemed becoming, and went down to supper. 

Her step-father only spoke once during the meal; he was luxuriating inthe thought of the _Summa Theologiae_ of Aquinas in leather stillbrown and beautiful, which he had providentially discovered in thewash-house of an ailing Parishioner. When he did speak he said:

"How extremely untidy your hair is, Lizzie. I wish you would take morepains with your appearance. "

When he had withdrawn to his books she covered three new volumes forthe library: the black came off on her hands, but anyway it was cleandirt. 

She went to bed early. 

"And that's my life, " she said as she blew out the candle. 

Said Mrs. James to Mrs. Symes over the last and strongest cup of tea:

"Miss Betty's ailing a bit, I fancy. Looked a bit peaky, it seemed tome. I shouldn't wonder if she was to go off in a decline like herfather did. "

"It wasn't no decline, " said Mrs. Symes, dropping her thick voice, "'e was cut off in the midst of his wicked courses. A judgment ifever there was one. "

Betty's blameless father had been killed in the hunting field. 

"I daresay she takes after him, only being a female it all turns toher being pernickety in her food and allus wanting the windows open. And mark my words, it may turn into a decline yet, Mrs. Symes, mydear. "

Mrs. Symes laughed fatly. "That ain't no decline, " she said, "you takeit from me. What Miss Betty wants is a young man. It is but natureafter all, and what we must all come to, gentle or simple. Give her ayoung man to walk out with and you'll see the difference. Declineindeed! A young man's what she wants. And if I know anything of gellsand their ways she'll get one, no matter how close the old chap keepsher. "

Mrs. Symes was not so wrong as the delicate minded may suppose. 

Betty did indeed desire to fall in love. In all the story books themain interest of the heroine's career began with that event. Not thatshe voiced the desire to herself. Only once she voiced it in herprayers. 

"Oh, God, " she said, "do please let something happen!"

That was all. A girl had her little reticences, even with herself, even with her Creator. 

Next morning she planned to go sketching; but no, there were threemore detestable books to be put into nasty little black cotton coats, the drawing-room to be dusted--all the hateful china--the peas to beshelled for dinner. 

She shelled the peas in the garden. It was a beautiful green garden, and lovers could have walked very happily down the lilac-borderedpaths. 

"Oh, how sick I am of it all!" said Betty. She would not say, even toherself, that what she hated was the frame without the picture. 

As she carried in the peas she passed the open window of the studywhere, among shelves of dull books and dusty pamphlets, herstep-father had as usual forgotten his sermon in a chain of referencesto the Fathers. Betty saw his thin white hairs, his hard narrow faceand tight mouth, the hands yellow and claw-like that gripped the thinvellum folio. 

"I suppose even he was young once, " she said, "but I'm sure he doesn'tremember it. "

He saw her go by, young and alert in the sunshine, and the May airstirred the curtains. He looked vaguely about him, unlocked a drawerin his writing-table, and took out a leather case. He gazed long atthe face within, a young bright face with long ringlets above theformal bodice and sloping shoulders of the sixties. 

"Well, well, " he said, "well, well, " locked it away, and went back to_De Poenis Parvulorum_. 

"I _will_ go out, " said Betty, as she parted with the peas. "I don'tcare!"

It was not worth while to change one's frock. Even when one wasproperly dressed, at rare local garden-party or flower-show, one nevermet anyone that mattered. 

She fetched her sketching things. At eighteen one does so patheticallytry to feed the burgeoning life with the husks of politeaccomplishment. She insisted on withholding from the clutches of theParish the time to practise Beethoven and Sullivan for an hour daily. Daily, for half an hour, she read an improving book. Just now it wasThe French Revolution, and Betty thought it would last till she wassixty. She tried to read French and German--Télémaque and MariaStuart. She fully intended to become all that a cultured young womanshould be. But self-improvement is a dull game when there is no one toapplaud your score. 

What the gardener called the gravel path was black earth, moss-grown. Very pretty, but Betty thought it shabby. 

It was soft and cool, though, to the feet, and the dust of the whiteroad sparkled like diamond dust in the sunlight. 

She crossed the road and passed through the swing gate into the park, where the grass was up for hay, with red sorrel and buttercups andtall daisies and feathery flowered grasses, their colours all tangledand blended together like ravelled ends of silk on the wrong side ofsome great square of tapestry. Here and there in the wide sweep oftall growing things stood a tree--a may-tree shining like silver, alaburnum like fine gold. There were horse-chestnuts whose spires ofblossom shewed like fat candles on a Christmas tree for giantchildren. And the sun was warm and the tree shadows black on thegrass. 

Betty told herself that she hated it all. She took the narrowpath--the grasses met above her feet--crossed the park, and reachedthe rabbit warren, where the chalk breaks through the thin dry turf, and the wild thyme grows thick. 

A may bush, overhanging a little precipice of chalk, caught her eye. Awild rose was tangled round it. It was, without doubt, the mostdifficult composition within sight. 

"I will sketch that, " said Eighteen, confidently. 

For half an hour she busily blotted and washed and niggled. Then shebecame aware that she no longer had the rabbit warren to herself. 

"And he's an artist, too!" said Betty. "How awfully interesting! Iwish I could see his face. "

But this his slouched Panama forbade. He was in white, the sleeve andbreast of his painting jacket smeared with many colours; he had acamp-stool and an easel and looked, she could not help feeling, muchmore like a real artist than she did, hunched up as she was on alittle mound of turf, in her shabby pink gown and that hateful gardenhat with last year's dusty flattened roses in it. 

She went on sketching with feverish unskilled fingers, and a pulsethat had actually quickened its beat. 

She cast little glances at him as often as she dared. He was certainlya real artist. She could tell that by the very way he held hispalette. Was he staying with people about there? Should she meet him?Would they ever be introduced to each other?

"Oh, what a pity, " said Betty from the heart, "that we aren'tintroduced _now_!"

Her sketch grew worse and worse. 

"It's no good, " she said. "I can't do anything with it. "

She glanced at him. He had pushed back the hat. She saw quite plainlythat he was smiling--a very little, but he _was_ smiling. Also he waslooking at her, and across the fifteen yards of gray turf their eyesmet. And she knew that he knew that this was not her first glance athim. 

She paled with fury. 

"He has been watching me all the time! He is making fun of me. Heknows I can't sketch. Of course he can see it by the silly way I holdeverything. " She ran her knife around her sketch, detached it, andtore it across and across. 

The stranger raised his hat and called eagerly. 

"I say--please don't move for a minute. Do you mind? I've just gotyour pink gown. It's coming beautifully. Between brother artists--Do, please! Do sit still and go on sketching--Ah, do!"

Betty's attitude petrified instantly. She held a brush in her hand, and she looked down at her block. But she did not go on sketching. Shesat rigid and three delicious words rang in her ears: "Between brotherartists!" How very nice of him! He hadn't been making fun, after all. But wasn't it rather impertinent of him to put her in his picturewithout asking her? Well, it wasn't she but her pink gown he wanted. And "between brother artists!" Betty drew a long breath. 

"It's no use, " he called; "don't bother any more. The pose is gone. "

She rose to her feet and he came towards her. 

"Let me see the sketch, " he said. "Why did you tear it up?" He fittedthe pieces together. "Why, it's quite good. You ought to study inParis, " he added idly. 

She took the torn papers from his hand with a bow, and turned to go. 

"Don't go, " he said. "You're not going? Don't you want to look at mypicture?"

Now Betty knew as well as you do that you musn't speak to peopleunless you've been introduced to them. But the phrase "brotherartists" had played ninepins with her little conventions. 

"Thank you. I should like to very much, " said Betty. "I don't care, "she said to herself, "and besides, it's not as if he were a young man, or a tourist, or anything. He must be ever so old--thirty; I shouldn'twonder if he was thirty-five. "

When she saw the picture she merely said, "Oh, " and stood at gaze. Forit _was_ a picture--a picture that, seen in foreign lands, might wellmake one sick with longing for the dry turf and the pale dog violetsthat love the chalk, for the hum of the bees and the scent of thethyme. He had chosen the bold sweep of the brown upland against thesky, and low to the left, where the line broke, the dim violet of theKentish hills. In the green foreground the pink figure, just roughlyblocked in, was blocked in by a hand that knew its trade, and wasartist to the tips of its fingers. 

"Oh!" said Betty again. 

"Yes, " said he, "I think I've got it this time. I think it'll make ahole in the wall, eh? Yes; it is good!"

"Yes, " said Betty; "oh, yes. "

"Do you often go a-sketching?" he asked. 

"How modest he is, " thought Betty; "he changes the subject so as notto seem to want to be praised. "

Aloud she answered with shy fluttered earnestness: "Yes--no. I don'tknow. Sometimes. "

His lips were grave, but there was the light behind his eyes that goeswith a smile. 

"What unnecessary agitation!" he was thinking. "Poor little thing, Isuppose she's never seen a man before. Oh, these country girls!" Aloudhe was saying: "This is such a perfect country. You ought to sketchevery day. "

"I've no one to teach me, " said Betty, innocently phrasing a long-feltwant. 

The man raised his eyebrows. "Well, after that, here goes!" he said tohimself. "I wish you'd let _me_ teach you, " he said to her, beginningto put his traps together. 

"Oh, I didn't mean that, " said Betty in real distress. What would hethink of her? How greedy and grasping she must seem! "I didn't meanthat at all!"

"No; but I do, " he said. 

"But you're a great artist, " said Betty, watching him with claspedhands. "I suppose it would be--I mean--don't you know, we're not rich, and I suppose your lessons are worth pounds and pounds. "

"I don't give lessons for money, " his lips tightened--"only for love. "

"That means nothing, doesn't it?" she said, and flushed to findherself on the defensive feebly against--nothing. 

"At tennis, yes, " he said, and to himself he added: "_Vieux jeu_, mydear, but you did it very prettily. "

"But I couldn't let you give me lessons for nothing. "

"Why not?" he asked. And his calmness made Betty feel ashamed andsordid. 

"I don't know, " she answered tremulously, but I don't think mystep-father would want me to. "

"You think it would annoy him?"

"I'm sure it would, if he knew about it. "

Betty was thinking how little her step-father had ever cared to knowof her and her interests. But the man caught the ball as he saw it. 

"Then why let him know?" was the next move; and it seemed to him thatBetty's move of rejoinder came with a readiness born of some practiceat the game. 

"Oh, " she said innocently, "I never thought of that! But wouldn't itbe wrong?"

"She's got the whole thing stereotyped. But it's dainty type anyhow, "he thought. "Of course it wouldn't be wrong, " he said. "It wouldn'thurt him. Don't you know that nothing's wrong unless it hurtssomebody?"

"Yes, " she said eagerly, "that's what I think. But all the same itdoesn't seem fair that you should take all that trouble for me and getnothing in return. "

"Well played! We're getting on!" he thought, and added aloud: "Butperhaps I shan't get nothing in return?"

Her eyes dropped over the wonderful thought that perhaps she might dosomething for _him_. But what? She looked straight at him, and theinnocent appeal sent a tiny thorn of doubt through his armour ofcomplacency. Was she--after all? No, no novice could play the game sowell. And yet--

"I would do anything I could, you know, " she said eagerly, "because itis so awfully kind of you, and I do so want to be able to paint. Whatcan I do?"

"What can you do?" he asked, and brought his face a little nearer tothe pretty flushed freckled face under the shabby hat. Her eyes methis. He felt a quick relenting, and drew back. 

"Well, for one thing you could let me paint your portrait. "

Betty was silent. 

"Come, play up, you little duffer, " he urged inwardly. 

When she spoke her voice trembled. 

"I don't know how to thank you, " she said. 

"And you will?"

"Oh, I will; indeed I will!"

"How good and sweet you are, " he said. Then there was a silence. 

Betty tightened the strap of her sketching things and said:

"I think I ought to go home now. "

He had the appropriate counter ready. 

"Ah, don't go yet!" he said; "let us sit down; see, that bank is quitein the shade now, and tell me--"

"Tell you what?" she asked, for he had made the artistic pause. 

"Oh, anything--anything about yourself. "

Betty was as incapable of flight as any bird on a limed twig. 

She walked beside him to the bank, and sat down at his bidding, and helay at her feet, looking up into her eyes. He asked idle questions:she answered them with a conscientious tremulous truthfulness thatshowed to him as the most finished art. And it seemed to him a veryfortunate accident that he should have found here, in this unlikelyspot, so accomplished a player at his favorite game. Yet it was thevariety of his game for which he cared least. He did not greatlyrelish a skilled adversary. Betty told him nervously and in wordsill-chosen everything that he asked to know, but all the while theundercurrent of questions rang strong within her--"When is he to teachme? Where? How?"--so that when at last there was left but the barefifteen minutes needed to get one home in time for the midday dinnershe said abruptly:

"And when shall I see you again?"

"You take the words out of my mouth, " said he. And indeed she had. "She has no _finesse_ yet, " he told himself. "She might have left thatmove to me. "

"The lessons, you know, " said Betty, "and, and the picture, if youreally do want to do it. "

"If I want to do it!--You know I want to do it. Yes. It's like thenursery game. How, when and where? Well, as to the how--I can paintand you can learn. The where--there's a circle of pines in the woodhere. You know it? A sort of giant fairy ring?"

She did know it. 

"Now for the when--and that's the most important. I should like topaint you in the early morning when the day is young and innocent andbeautiful--like--like--" He was careful to break off in a most naturalseeming embarrassment. "That's a bit thick, but she'll swallow it allright. Gone down? Right!" he told himself. 

"I could come out at six if you liked, or--or five, " said Betty, humbly anxious to do her part. 

He was almost shocked. "My good child, " he told her silently, "someonereally ought to teach you not to do all the running. You don't give aman a chance. "

"Then will you meet me here to-morrow at six?" he said. "You won'tdisappoint me, will you?" he added tenderly. 

"No, " said downright Betty, "I'll be sure to come. But not to-morrow, "she added with undisguised regret; "to-morrow's Sunday. "

"Monday then, " said he, "and good-bye. "

"Good-bye, and--oh, I don't know how to thank you!"

"I'm very much mistaken if you don't, " he said as he stood bareheaded, watching the pink gown out of sight. 

"Well, adventures to the adventurous! A clergyman's daughter, too! Imight have known it. "

CHAPTER II. 

THE IRRESISTIBLE. 

Betty had to run all the way home, and then she was late for dinner. Her step-father's dry face and dusty clothes, the solid comfort of themahogany furnished dining room, the warm wet scent of mutton, --theseseemed needed to wake her from what was, when she had awakened, adream--the open sky, the sweet air of the May fields and _Him_. Already the stranger was Him to Betty. But, then, she did not know hisname. 

She slipped into her place at the foot of the long white dining table, a table built to serve a dozen guests, and where no guests ever sat, save rarely a curate or two, and more rarely even, an aunt. 

"You are late again, Lizzie, " said her step-father. 

"Yes, Father, " said she, trying to hide her hands and the fact thatshe had not had time to wash them. A long streak of burnt siennamarked one finger, and her nails had little slices of various coloursin them. Her paint-box was always hard to open. 

Usually Mr. Underwood saw nothing. But when he saw anything he saweverything. His eye was caught by the green smudge on her pink sleeve. 

"I wish you would contrive to keep yourself clean, or else wear apinafore, " he said. 

Betty flushed scarlet. 

"I'm very sorry, " she said, "but it's only water colour. It will washout. "

"You are nearly twenty, are you not?" the Vicar inquired with the drysmile that always infuriated his step-daughter. How was she to knowthat it was the only smile he knew, and that smiles of any sort hadlong grown difficult to him?

"Eighteen, " she said. 

"It is almost time you began to think about being a lady. "

This was badinage. No failures had taught the Reverend Cecil that hisstep-daughter had an ideal of him in which badinage had no place. Shemerely supposed that he wished to be disagreeable. 

She kept a mutinous silence. The old man sighed. It is one's duty tocorrect the faults of one's child, but it is not pleasant. TheReverend Cecil had not the habit of shirking any duty because hehappened to dislike it. 

The mutton was taken away. 

Betty, her whole being transfigured by the emotions of the morning, stirred the stewed rhubarb on her plate. She felt rising in her a sortof wild forlorn courage. Why shouldn't she speak out? Her step-fathercouldn't hate her more than he did, whatever she said. He might evenbe glad to be rid of her. She spoke suddenly and rather loudly beforeshe knew that she had meant to speak at all. 

"Father, " she said, "I wish you'd let me go to Paris and study art. Not now, " she hurriedly explained with a sudden vision of being takenat her word and packed off to France before six o'clock on Mondaymorning, "not now, but later. In the autumn perhaps. I would work veryhard. I wish you'd let me. "

He put on his spectacles and looked at her with wistful kindness. Sheread in his glance only a frozen contempt. 

"No, my child, " he said. Paris is a sink of iniquity. I passed a weekthere once, many years ago. It was at the time of the GreatExhibition. You are growing discontented, Lizzie. Work is the cure forthat. Mrs. Symes tells me that the chemises for the Mother's sewingmeetings are not cut out yet. "

"I'll cut them out to-day. They haven't finished the shirts yet, anyway, " said Betty; "but I do wish you'd just think about Paris, oreven London. "

"You can have lessons at home if you like. I believe there areexcellent drawing-mistresses in Sevenoaks. Mrs. Symes was recommendingone of them to me only the other day. With certificates from the HighSchool I seem to remember her saying. "

"But that's not what I want, " said Betty with a courage that surprisedher as much as it surprised him. "Don't you see, Father? One getsolder every day, and presently I shall be quite old, and I shan't havebeen anywhere or seen anything. "

He thought he laughed indulgently at the folly of youth. She thoughthis laugh the most contemptuous, the cruelest sound in the world. "Hedoesn't deserve that I should tell him about Him, " she thought, "and Iwon't. I don't care!"

"No, no, " he said, "no, no, no. The home is the place for girls. Thesafe quiet shelter of the home. Perhaps some day your husband willtake you abroad for a fortnight now and then. If you manage to get ahusband, that is. "

He had seen, through his spectacles, her flushed prettiness, and oldas he was he remembered well enough how a face like hers would seem toa young man's eyes. Of course she would get a husband? So he spoke inkindly irony. And she hated him for a wanton insult. 

"Try to do your duty in that state of life to which you are called, "he went on: "occupy yourself with music and books and the details ofhousekeeping. No, don't have my study turned out, " he added in haste, remembering how his advice about household details had been followedwhen last he gave it. "Don't be a discontented child. Go and cut outthe nice little chemises. " This seemed to him almost a touch of kindlyhumour, and he went back to Augustine, pleased with himself. 

Betty set her teeth and went, black rage in her heart, to cut out thehateful little chemises. 

She dragged the great roll of evil smelling grayish unbleached calicofrom the schoolroom cupboard and heaved it on to the table. It wasvery heavy. The scissors were blunt and left deep red-blueindentations on finger and thumb. She was rather pleased that thescissors hurt so much. 

"Father doesn't care a single bit, he hates me, " she said, "and I hatehim. Oh, I do. "

She would not think of the morning. Not now, with this fire ofimpotent resentment burning in her, would she take out those memoriesand look at them. Those were not thoughts to be dragged through thelitter of unbleached cotton cuttings. She worked on doggedly, completed the tale of hot heavy little garments, gathered up thepieces into the waste-paper basket and put away the roll. 

Not till the paint had been washed from her hands, and the crumbledprint dress exchanged for a quite respectable muslin did sheconsciously allow the morning's memories to come out and meet hereyes. Then she went down to the arbour where she had shelled peas onlythat morning. 

"It seems years and years ago, " she said. And sitting there, sheslowly and carefully went over everything. What he had said, what shehad said. There were some things she could not quite remember. But sheremembered enough. "Brother artists" were the words she said oftenestto herself, but the words that sank themselves were, "young andinnocent and beautiful like--like--"

"But he couldn't have meant me, of course, " she told herself. 

And on Monday she would see him again, --and he would give her alesson!

Sunday was incredibly wearisome. Her Sunday-school class had neverbeen so tiresome nor so soaked in hair-oil. In church she was shockedto find herself watching, from her pew in the chancel, the entry oflate comers--of whom He was not one. No afternoon had ever been halfso long. She wrote up her diary. Thursday and Friday were quicklychronicled. At "Saturday" she paused long, pen in hand, and then wrotevery quickly: "I went out sketching and met a gentleman, an artist. Hewas very kind and is going to teach me to paint and he is going topaint my portrait. I do not like him particularly. He is rather old, and not really good-looking. I shall not tell father, because he issimply hateful to me. I am going to meet this artist at 6 to-morrow. It will be dreadful having to get up so early. I almost wish I hadn'tsaid I would go. It will be such a bother. "

Then she hid the diary in a drawer, under her confirmation dress andveil, and locked the drawer carefully. 

He was not at church in the evening either. He had thought of it, butdecided that it was too much trouble to get into decent clothes. 

"I shall see her soon enough, " he thought, "curse my impulsivegenerosity! Six o'clock, forsooth, and all to please a clergyman'sdaughter. "

She came back from church with tired steps. 

"I do hope I'm not going to be ill, " she said. "I feel so odd, just asif I hadn't had anything to eat for days, --and yet I'm not a bithungry either. I daresay I shan't wake up in time to get there bysix. "

She was awake before five. 

She woke with a flutter of the heart. What was it? Had anythinghappened? Was anyone ill? Then she recognized that she was notunhappy. And she felt more than ever as though it were days since shehad had anything to eat. 

"Oh, dear, " said Betty, jumping out of bed. "I'm going out, to meetHim, and have a drawing-lesson!"

She dressed quickly. It was too soon to start. Not for anything mustshe be first at the rendezvous, even though it were only for adrawing-lesson. That "only" pulled her up sharply. 

When she was dressed she dug out the diary and wrote:

 "This is terrible. Is it possible that I have fallen in love with him? I don't know. 'Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?' It is a most frightful tragedy to happen to one, and at my age too. What a long life of loneliness stretches in front of me! For of course he could never care for me. And if this _is_ love--well, it will be once and forever with me, I know. 

 "That's my nature, I'm afraid. But I'm not, --I can't be. But I never felt so unlike myself. I feel a sort of calm exultation, as if something very wonderful was very near me. Dear Diary, what a comfort it is to have you to tell everything to!"

It seemed to her that she must certainly be late. She had to creepdown the front stairs so very slowly and softly in order that shemight not awaken her step-father. She had so carefully and silently tounfasten a window and creep out, to close the window again, withoutnoise, lest the maids should hear and come running to see why theiryoung mistress was out of her bed at that hour. She had to go ontiptoe through the shrubbery and out through the church yard. Onecould climb its wall, and get into the Park that way, so as not tomeet labourers on the road who would stare to see her alone so earlyand perhaps follow her. 

Once in the park she was safe. Her shoes and her skirts were wet withdew. She made haste. She did not want to keep him waiting. 

But she was first at the rendezvous, after all. 

She sat down on the carpet of pine needles. How pretty the earlymorning was. The sunlight was quite different from the eveningsunlight, so much lighter and brighter. And the shadows weredifferent. She tried to settle on a point of view for her sketch, thesketch he was to help her with. 

Her thoughts went back to what she had written in her diary. If that_should_ be true she must be very, very careful. He must never guessit, never. She would be very cold and distant and polite. Nothail-fellow well-met with a "brother artist, " like she had beenyesterday. It was all very difficult indeed. Even if it really didturn out to be true, if the wonderful thing had happened to her, ifshe really was in love she would not try a bit to make him like her. That would be forward and "horrid. " She would never try to attract anyman. Those things must come of themselves or not at all. 

She arranged her skirt in more effective folds, and wondered how itwould look as one came up the woodland path. She thought it would lookrather picturesque. It was a nice heliotrope colour. It would looklike a giant Parma violet against the dark green background. She hopedher hair was tidy. And that her hat was not very crooked. Howeverlittle one desires to attract, one may at least wish one's hat to bestraight. 

She looked for the twentieth time at her watch, the serviceable silverwatch that had been her mother's. Half-past six, and he had not come. 

Well, when he did come she would pretend she had only just got there. Or how would it be if she gave up being a Parma violet and went alittle way down the path and then turned back when she heard himcoming? She walked away a dozen yards and stood waiting. But he didnot come. Was it possible that he was not coming? Was he ill--lyinguncared for at the Peal of Bells in the village, with no one to smoothhis pillow or put eau-de-cologne on his head?

She walked a hundred yards or so towards the village on the spur ofthis thought. 

Or perhaps he had come by another way to the trysting place? Thatthought drove her back. He was not there. 

Well, she would not stay any longer. She would just go away, and comeback ever so much later, and let him have a taste of waiting. She hadhad her share, she told herself, as she almost ran from the spot. Shestopped suddenly. But suppose he did _not_ wait? She went slowly back. 

She sat down again, schooled herself to patience. 

What an idiot she had been! Like any school-girl. Of course he hadnever meant to come. Why should he? That page in her diary called outto her to come home and burn it. Care for him indeed! Not she! Why shehadn't exchanged ten words with the man!

"But I knew it was all nonsense when I wrote it, " she said. "I onlyjust put it down to see what it would look like. "

 * * * * *

Mr. Eustace Vernon roused himself, and yawned. 

"It's got to be done, I suppose. Buck up, --you'll feel better afteryour bath! Jove! Seven o'clock. Will she have waited? She's a keenplayer if she has. It's just worth trying, I suppose. "

The church clock struck the half-hour as he turned into the wood. Something palely violet came towards him. 

"So you _are_ here, " he said. "Where's the pink frock?"

"It's--it's going to the wash, " said a stiff and stifled voice. "I'msorry I couldn't get here at six. I hope you didn't wait long?"

"Not very long, " he said, smiling; "but--Great Heavens, what on earthis the matter?"

"Nothing, " she said. 

"But you've been--you are--"

"I'm not, " she said defiantly, --"besides, I've got neuralgia. Italways makes me look like that. "

"My Aunt!" he thought. "Then she _was_ here at six and--she's beencrying because I wasn't and--oh, where are we?" "I'm so sorry you'vegot neuralgia, " he said gently, "but I'm awfully glad you didn't gethere at six. Because my watch was wrong and I've only just got here, and I should never have forgiven myself if you'd waited for me asingle minute. Is the neuralgia better now?"

"Yes, " she said, smiling faintly, "much better. It was rather sharpwhile it lasted, though. "

"Yes, " he said, "I see it was. I am so glad you did come. But I was socertain you wouldn't that I didn't bring any of my traps. So we can'tbegin the picture to-day. Will you start a sketch, or is yourneuralgia too bad?"

He knew it would be: and it was. 

So they merely sat on the pine carpet and talked till it was time forher to go back to the late Rectory breakfast. They told each othertheir names that day. Betty talked very carefully. It was mostimportant that he should think well of her. Her manner had changed, asshe had promised herself it should do if she found she cared for him. Now she was with him she knew, of course, that she did not care atall. What had made her so wretched--no, so angry that she had actuallycried, was simply the idea that she had been made a fool of. That shehad kept the tryst and he hadn't. Now he had come she was quite calm. She did not care in the least. 

He was saying to himself: "I'm not often wrong, but I was off the lineyesterday. All that doesn't count. We take a fresh deal and startfair. She doesn't know the game, _mais elle a des moyens_. She's neverplayed the game before. And she cried because I didn't turn up. And soI'm the first--think of it, if you please--absolutely the first one!Well: it doesn't detract from the interest of the game. It's quite adifferent game and requires more skill. But not more than I have, perhaps. "

They parted with another tryst set for the next morning. The brotherartist note had been skilfully kept vibrating. 

Betty was sure that she should never have any feeling for him but merefriendliness. She was glad of that. It must be dreadful to be reallyin love. So unsettling. 

CHAPTER III. 

VOLUNTARY. 

Mr. Eustace Vernon is not by any error to be imagined as a villain ofthe deepest dye, coldly planning to bring misery to a simple villagemaiden for his own selfish pleasure. Not at all. As he himself wouldhave put it, he meant no harm to the girl. He was a master of twoarts, and to these he had devoted himself wholly. One was the art ofpainting. But one cannot paint for all the hours there are. In theintervals of painting Vernon always sought to exercise his other art. One is limited, of course, by the possibilities, but he liked to havealways at least one love affair on hand. And just now there werenone--none at least possessing the one charm that irresistibly drewhim--newness. The one or two affairs that dragged on merely meantletter writing, and he hated writing letters almost as much as hehated reading them. 

The country had been unfortunately barren of interest until his eyesfell on that sketching figure in the pink dress. For he respected oneof his arts no less than the other, and would as soon have thought ofpainting a vulgar picture as of undertaking a vulgar love-affair. Hewas no pavement artist. Nor did he degrade his art by caricatures drawnin hotel bars. Dairy maids did not delight him, and the mood was rarewith him in which one finds anything to say to a little milliner. Hewanted the means, not the end, and was at one with the unknown sagewho said: "The love of pleasure spoils the pleasure of love. "

There is a gift, less rare than is supposed, of wiping the slate cleanof memories, and beginning all over again: a certain virginity of soulthat makes each new kiss the first kiss, each new love the only love. This gift was Vernon's, and he had cultivated it so earnestly, sodelicately, that except in certain moods when he lost his temper, andwith it his control of his impulses, he was able to bring even to aconservatory flirtation something of the fresh emotion of a schoolboyin love. 

Betty's awkwardnesses, which he took for advances, had chilled him alittle, though less than they would have done had not one of theevil-tempered moods been on him. 

He had dreaded lest the affair should advance too quickly. His owntaste was for the first steps in an affair of the heart, the delicatedoubts, the planned misunderstandings. He did not question his ownability to conduct the affair capably from start to finish, but hehated to skip the dainty preliminaries. He had feared that with Bettyhe should have to skip them, for he knew that it is only in theirfirst love affairs that women have the patience to watch the flowerunfold itself. He himself was of infinite patience in that pastime. Hebit his lip and struck with his cane at the buttercup heads. He hadmade a wretched beginning, with his "good and sweet. " his "young andinnocent and beautiful like--like. " If the girl had been a shade lessinnocent the whole business would have been muffed--muffed hopelessly. 

To-morrow he would be there early. A ship of promise should be--notlaunched--that was weeks away. The first timbers should be felled tobuild a ship to carry him, and her too, of course, a little waytowards the enchanted islands. 

He knew the sea well, and it would be pleasant to steer on it one towhom it was all new--all, all. 

"Dear little girl, " he said, "I don't suppose she has ever eventhought of love. "

He was not in love with her, but he meant to be. He carefully thoughtof her all that day, of her hair, her eyes, her hands; her hands werereally beautiful--small, dimpled and well-shaped--not the hands heloved best, those were long and very slender, --but still beautiful. And before he went to bed he wrote a little poem, to encourage himself:

 Yes. I have loved before; I know This longing that invades my days, This shape that haunts life's busy ways I know since long and long ago. 

 This starry mystery of delight That floats across my eager eyes, This pain that makes earth Paradise, These magic songs of day and night, I know them for the things they are: A passing pain, a longing fleet, A shape that soon I shall not meet, A fading dream of veil and star. 

 Yet, even as my lips proclaim The wisdom that the years have lent, Your absence is joy's banishment And life's one music is your name. 

 I love you to the heart's hid core: Those other loves? How can one learn From marshlights how the great fires burn? Ah, no--I never loved before!

When he read it through he entitled it, "The Veil of Maya, " so that itmight pretend to have no personal application. 

After that more than ever rankled the memory of that first morning. 

"How could I?" he asked himself. "I must indeed have been in a grossmood. One seems sometimes to act outside oneself altogether. Temporarypossession by some brutal ancestor perhaps. Well, it's not too late. "

Next morning he worked at his picture, in the rabbit-warren, but hishead found itself turning towards the way by which on that first dayshe had gone. She must know that on a day like this he would not bewasting the light, --that he would be working. She would be wanting tosee him again. Would she come out? He wished she would. But he hopedshe wouldn't. It would have meant another readjustment of ideas. Heneed not have been anxious. She did not come. 

He worked steadily, masterfully. He always worked best at thebeginning of a love affair. All of him seemed somehow more alive, moreawake, more alert and competent. His mood was growing quickly to whathe meant it to be. He was what actors call a quick study. Soon hewould be able to play perfectly, without so much as a thought to the"book, " the part of Paul to this child's Virginia. 

Had Virginia, he wondered, any relations besides the step-father whomshe so light-heartedly consented to hoodwink? Relations who mightinterfere and pray and meddle and spoil things?

However ashamed we may be of our relations they cannot forever beconcealed. It must be owned that Betty was not the lonely orphan shesometimes pretended to herself to be. She had aunts--an accident thatmay happen to the best of us. 

A year or two before Betty was born, a certain youth of good birthleft Harrow and went to Ealing where he was received in a family inthe capacity of Crammer's pup. The family was the Crammer and hisdaughter, a hard-headed, tight-mouthed, black-haired young woman whoknew exactly what she wanted, and who meant to get it. Poverty hadtaught her to know what she wanted. Nature, and the folly ofyouth--not her own youth--taught her how to get it. There were severalpups. She selected the most eligible, secretly married him, and to theday of her death spoke and thought of the marriage as a love-match. Hewas a dreamy youth, who wrote verses and called the Crammer's daughterhis Egeria. She was too clever not to be kind to him, and he adoredher and believed in her to the end, which came before his twenty-firstbirthday. He broke his neck out hunting, and died before Betty wasborn. 

His people, exasperated at the news of the marriage, threatened to tryto invalidate it on the score of the false swearing that had beenneeded to get the boy of nineteen married to the woman of twenty-four. Egeria was frightened. She compromised for an annuity of two hundredpounds, to be continued to her child. 

The passion of this woman's life was power. One cannot be verypowerful with just two hundred a year, and a doubtful position as thewidow of a boy whose relations are prepared to dispute one's marriage. Mrs. Desmond spent three years in thought, and in caring severely forthe wants of her child. Then she bought four handsome dresses, andsome impressive bonnets, went to a Hydropathic Establishment, andlooked about her. Of the eligible men there Mr. Cecil Underwoodseemed, on enquiry, to be the most eligible. So she married him. Heresisted but little, for his parish needed a clergywoman sadly. Thetwo hundred pounds was a welcome addition to an income depleted by thepurchase of rare editions, and at the moment crippled by his recentacquisition of the Omiliac of Vincentius in its original oak boardsand leather strings; and, above all, he saw in the three-year-oldBetty the child he might have had if things had gone otherwise withhim and another when they both were young. 

Mrs. Desmond had felt certain she could rule a parish. Mrs. CecilUnderwood did rule it--as she had known she could. She ruled herhusband too. And Betty. When she caught cold from working all dayamong damp evergreens for the Christmas decorations, and, developingpneumonia, died, she died resentfully, thanking God that she hadalways done her duty, and quite unable to imagine how the world wouldgo on without her. She felt almost sure that in cutting short hercareer of usefulness her Creator was guilty of an error of judgmentwhich He would sooner or later find reason to regret. 

Her husband mourned her. He had the habit of her, of her strongcapable ways, the clockwork precision of her household and parisharrangements. But as time went on he saw that perhaps he was morecomfortable without her: as a reformed drunkard sees that it is betternot to rely on brandy for one's courage. He saw it, but of course henever owned it to himself. 

Betty was heart-broken, quite sincerely heart-broken. She forgot allthe mother's hard tyrannies, her cramping rules, her narrow bittercreed, and remembered only the calm competence, amounting to genius, with which her mother had ruled the village world, her unflaggingenergy and patience, and her rare moments of tenderness. Sheremembered too all her own lapses from filial duty, and those memorieswere not comfortable. 

Yet Betty too, when the self-tormenting remorseful stage had wornitself out, found life fuller, freer without her mother. Herstep-father she hated--had always hated. But he could be avoided. Shewent to a boarding-school at Torquay, and some of her holidays werespent with her aunts, the sisters of the boy-father who had not livedto see Betty. 

She adored the aunts. They lived in a world of which her village worlddid not so much as dream; they spoke of things which folks at homeneither knew of nor cared for; and they spoke a language that was notspoken at Long Barton. Of course, everyone who was anyone at LongBarton spoke in careful and correct English, but no one ever troubledto turn a phrase. And irony would have been considered very bad formindeed. Aunt Nina wore lovely clothes and powdered her still prettyface; Aunt Julia smoked cigarettes and used words that ladies at LongBarton did not use. Betty was proud of them both. 

It was Aunt Nina who taught Betty how to spend her allowance, how tobuy pretty things, and, better still, tried to teach her how to wearthem. Aunt Julia it was who brought her the Indian necklaces, andpromised to take her to Italy some day if she was good. Aunt Ninalived in Grosvenor Square and Aunt Julia's address was most often, vaguely, the Continent of Europe. Sometimes a letter addressed to someodd place in Asia or America would find her. 

But when Betty had left school her visits to Aunt Nina ceased. Mr. Underwood feared that she was now of an age to be influenced bytrifles, and that London society would make her frivolous. Besides hehad missed her horribly, all through her school-days, though he hadyielded to the insistence of the aunts. But he had wanted Betty badly. Only of course it never occurred to him to tell her so. 

So Betty had lived on at the Rectory carrying on, with more or less ofsuccess, such of her Mother's Parish workings as had managed tooutlive their author, and writing to the aunts to tell them how boredshe was and how she hated to be called "Lizzie. "

She could not be expected to know that her stepfather had known as"Lizzie" the girl who, if Fate had been kind, would have been his wifeor the mother of his child. Betty's letters breathed contempt ofParish matters, weariness of the dulness of the country, andexasperation at the hardness of a lot where "nothing ever happened. "

Well, something had happened now. 

The tremendous nature of the secret she was keeping against the worldalmost took Betty's breath away. It was to the adventure, far morethan to the man, that her heart's beat quickened. Something hadhappened. 

Long Barton was no longer the dullest place in the world. It was thecentre of the universe. See her diary, an entry following a gap wherea page had been torn out:

"Mr. V. Is very kind. He is teaching me to sketch. He says I shall dovery well when I have forgotten what I learned at school. It is sonice of him to be so straightforward. I hate flattery. He has begun myportrait. It is beautiful, but he says it is exactly like me. Ofcourse it is his painting that makes it beautiful, and not anything todo with me. That is not flattery. I do not think he could say anythingunless he really thought it. He is that sort of man, I think. I am soglad he is so good. If he were a different sort of person perhaps itwould not be quite nice for me to go and meet him without any oneknowing. But there is nothing _of that sort_. He was quite differentthe first day. But I think then he was off his guard and could nothelp himself. I don't know quite what I meant by that. But, anyway, Iam sure he is as good as gold, and that is such a comfort. I reverehim. I believe he is really noble and unselfish, and so few men are, alas!"

The noble and unselfish Vernon meanwhile was quite happy. His picturewas going splendidly, and every morning he woke to the knowledge thathis image filled all the thoughts of a good little girl with gray darkcharming eyes and a face that reminded one of a pretty kitten. Herdrawing was not half bad either. He was spared the mortifying labourof trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. In one of his artsas in the other he decided that she had talent. And it was pleasantthat to him should have fallen the task of teacher in bothdepartments. Those who hunt the fox will tell you that Reynard enjoys, equally with the hounds and their masters, the pleasures of the chase. Vernon was quite of this opinion in regard to his favourite sport. Hereally felt that he gave as much pleasure as he took. And his ownforgettings were so easy that the easy forgetting of others seemed aforegone conclusion. His forgetting always came first, that was all. But now, the Spring, her charm and his own firm _parti pris_ workingtogether, it seemed to him that he could never forget Betty, couldnever wish to forget her. 

Her pretty conscious dignity charmed him. He stood still to look atit. He took no step forward. His role was that of the deeplyrespectful "brother artist. " If his hand touched hers as he correctedher drawing, that was accident. If, as he leaned over her, criticisingher work, the wind sent the end of her hair against his ear, thatcould hardly be avoided in a breezy English spring. It was not hisfault that the little thrill it gave him was intensified ahundred-fold when, glancing at her, he perceived that her own ears hadgrown scarlet. 

Betty went through her days in a dream. There were all the duties shehated--the Mothers' meetings, the Parish visits when she tried toadjust the quarrels and calm the jealousies of the stout aggressiveMothers, the carrying round the Parish Magazine. There were no longhours, now. In every spare moment she worked at her drawing to pleasehim. It was the least she could do, after all his kindness. 

Her step-father surprised her once hard at work with charcoal andboard and plumb-line, a house-maid posing for her with a broom. Hecongratulated himself that his little sermon on the advantages ofoccupation as a cure for discontent had borne fruit so speedy and sosound. 

"Dear child, she only wanted a word in season, " he thought. And hesaid:

"I am glad to see that you have put away vain dreams, Lizzie. And yourlabours will not be thrown away, either. If you go on taking pains Idaresay you will be able to paint some nice blotting-books and screensfor the School Bazaar. "

"I daresay, " said Betty, adding between her teeth, "If you only knew!"

"But we mustn't keep Letitia from her work, " he added, vaguelyconscientious. Letitia flounced off, and Betty, his back turned, toreup the drawing. 

And, as a beautiful background to the gross realism of Mothers'meetings and Parish tiresomenesses, was always the atmosphere of thegolden mornings, the dew and the stillness, the gleam of his whitecoat among the pine-trees. For he was always first at the tryst now. 

Betty was drunk; and she was too young to distinguish betweenvintages. When she had been sober she had feared intoxication. Now shewas drunk, she thanked Heaven that she was sober. 

CHAPTER IV. 

INVOLUNTARY. 

Six days of sunlight and clear air, of mornings as enchanting asdreams, of dreams as full of magic as May mornings. Then aninterminable Sunday hot and sultry, with rolling purple clouds and anevening of thunder and heavy showers. A magenta sunset, a nightworking, hidden in its own darkness, its own secret purposes, and aMonday morning gray beyond belief, with a soft steady rain. 

Betty stood for full five minutes looking out at the straight finefall, at the white mist spread on the lawn, the blue mist twined roundthe trees, listening to the plash of the drops that gathered and fellfrom the big wet ivy leaves, to the guggle of the water-spout, thehiss of smitten gravel. 

"He'll never go, " she thought, and her heart sank. 

He, shaving, in the chill damp air by his open dimity-draped window, was saying:

"She'll be there, of course. Women are all perfectly insensible toweather. "

Two mackintoshed figures met in the circle of pines. 

"You have come, " he said. "I never dreamed you would. How cold yourhand is!"

He held it for a moment warmly clasped. 

"I thought it might stop any minute, " said Betty; "it seemed a pity towaste a morning. "

"Yes, " he said musingly, "it would be a pity to waste a morning. Iwould not waste one of these mornings for a kingdom. "

Betty fumbled with her sketching things as a sort of guarantee of goodfaith. 

"But it's too wet to work, " said she. "I suppose I'd better go homeagain. "

"That seems a dull idea--for me, " he said; "it's very selfish, ofcourse, but I'm rather sad this morning. Won't you stay a little andcheer me up?"

Betty asked nothing better. But even to her a tete-a-tete in a wood, with rain pattering and splashing on leaves and path and resonantmackintoshes, seemed to demand some excuse. 

"I should think breakfast and being dry would cheer you up better thananything, " said she. "And it's very wet here. "

"Hang breakfast! But you're right about the wetness. There's a shed inthe field yonder. A harrow and a plough live there; they're sure to beat home on a day like this. Let's go and ask for their hospitality. "

"I hope they'll be nice to us, " laughed Betty; "it's dreadful to gowhere you're not wanted. "

"How do you know?" he asked, laughing too. "Come, give me your handand let's run for it. "

They ran, hand in hand, the wet mackintoshes flapping and slappingabout their knees, and drew up laughing and breathless in the dryquiet of the shed. Vernon thought of Love and Mr. Lewisham, but it wasnot the moment to say so. 

"See, they are quite pleased to see us, " said he, "they don't say aword against our sheltering here. The plough looks a bit glum, butshe'll grow to like us presently. As for harrow, look how he's smilingwelcome at you with all his teeth. "

"I'm glad he can't come forward to welcome us, " said Betty. "His teethlook very fierce. "

"He could, of course, only he's enchanted. He used to be able to moveabout, but now he's condemned to sit still and only smile till--tillhe sees two perfectly happy people. Are you perfectly happy?" he askedanxiously. 

"I don't know, " said Betty truly. "Are you?"

"No--not quite perfectly. "

"I'm so glad, " said Betty. "I shouldn't like the harrow to begin tomove while we're here. I'm sure it would bite us. "

He sighed and looked grave. "So you don't want me to be perfectlyhappy?"

She looked at him with her head on one side. 

"Not here, " she said. "I can't trust that harrow. "

His eyelids narrowed over his eyes--then relaxed. No, she was merelyplaying at enchanted harrows. 

"Are you cold still?" he asked, and reached for her hand. She gave itfrankly. 

"Not a bit, " she said, and took it away again. "The run warmed me. Infact--"

She unbuttoned the mackintosh and spread it on the bar of the ploughand sat down. Her white dress lighted up the shadows of the shed. Outside the rain fell steadily. 

"May I sit down too? Can Mrs. Plough find room for two children on herlap?"

She drew aside the folds of her dress, but even then only a littlespace was left. The plough had been carelessly housed and nearly halfof it was where the rain drove in on it. So that they were very closetogether. 

So close that he had to throw his head back to see clearly how therain had made the short hair curl round her forehead and ears, and howfresh were the tints of face and lips. Also he had to support himselfby an arm stretched out behind her. His arm was not round her, but itmight just as well have been, as far as the look of the thing went. Hethought of the arm of Mr. Lewisham. 

"Did you ever have your fortune told?" he asked. 

"No, never. I've always wanted to, but Father hates gipsies. When Iwas a little girl I used to put on my best clothes, and go out intothe lanes and sit about and hope the gipsies would steal me, but theynever did. "

"They're a degenerate race, blind to their own interests. But theyhaven't a monopoly of chances--fortunately. " His eyes were on herface. 

"I never had my fortune told, " said Betty. "I'd love it, but I think Ishould be afraid, all the same. Something might come true. "

Vernon was more surprised than he had ever been in his life at thesudden involuntary movement in his right arm. It cost him a consciouseffort not to let the arm follow its inclination and fall across herslender shoulders, while he should say:

"Your fortune is that I love you. Is it good or bad fortune?"

He braced the muscles of his arm, and kept it where it was. Thatsudden unreasonable impulse was a mortification, an insult to the manwhose pride it was to believe that his impulses were always planned. 

"I can tell fortunes, " he said. "When I was a boy I spent a couple ofmonths with some gipsies. They taught me lots of things. "

His memory, excellently trained, did not allow itself to dwell for aninstant on his reason for following those gipsies, on the dark-eyedblack-haired girl with the skin like pale amber, who had taught him, by the flicker of the camp-fire, the lines of head and heart and life, and other things beside. Oh, but many other things! That was before hebecame an artist. He was only an amateur in those days. 

"Did they teach you how to tell fortunes--really and truly?" askedBetty. "We had a fortune-teller's tent at the School Bazaar last year, and the youngest Smithson girl dressed up in spangles and a red dressand said she was Zara, the Eastern Mystic Hand-Reader, and Foretellerof the Future. But she got it all out of Napoleon's Book of Fate. "

"I don't get my fortune-telling out of anybody's book of anything, " hesaid. "I get it out of people's hands, and their faces. Some people'sfaces are their fortunes, you know. "

"I know they are, " she said a little sadly, "but everybody's got ahand and a fortune, whether they've got that sort of fortune-face ornot. "

"But the fortunes of the fortune-faced people are the ones one likesbest to tell. "

"Of course, " she admitted wistfully, "but what's going to happen toyou is just as interesting to _you_, even if your face isn'tinteresting to anybody. Do you always tell fortunes quite truly; Imean do you follow the real rules? or do you make up pretty fortunesfor the people with the pretty fortune-faces. "

"There's no need to 'make up. ' The pretty fortunes are always therefor the pretty fortune-faces: unless of course the hand contradictsthe face. "

"But can it?"

"Can't it? There may be a face that all the beautiful things in theworld are promised to: just by being so beautiful itself it drawsbeautiful happenings to it. But if the hand contradicts the face, ifthe hand is one of those narrow niggardly distrustful hands, one ofthe hands that will give nothing and take nothing, a hand withoutcourage, without generosity--well then one might as well be bornwithout a fortune-face, for any good it will ever do one. "

"Then you don't care to tell fortunes for people who haven't fortunefaces?"

"I should like to tell yours, if you would let me. Shall I?"

He held out his hand, but her hand was withheld. 

"I ought to cross your hand with silver, oughtn't I?" she asked. 

"It's considered correct--but--"

"Oh, don't let's neglect any proper precaution, " she said. "I haven'tgot any money. Tell it me to-morrow, and I will bring a sixpence. "

"You could cross my hand with your watch, " he said, "and I could takethe crossing as an I. O. U. Of the sixpence. "

She detached the old watch. He held out his hand and she gravelytraced a cross on it. 

"Now, " he said, "all preliminary formalities being complied with, letthe prophet do his work. Give me your hand, pretty lady, and the oldgipsy will tell you your fortune true. "

He held the hand in his, bending back the pink finger-tips with histhumb, and looked earnestly at its lines. Then he looked in her face, longer than he had ever permitted himself to look. He looked till hereyes fell. It was a charming picture. He was tall, strong, well-builtand quite as good-looking as a clever man has any need to be. And shewas as pretty as any oleograph of them all. 

It seemed a thousand pities that there should be no witness to such awell-posed tableau, no audience to such a charming scene. The pity ofit struck Destiny, and Destiny flashed the white of Betty's dress, ashrill point of light, into an eye a hundred yards away. The eye'sowner, with true rustic finesse, drew back into the wood's shadow, shaded one eye with a brown rustic hand, looked again, and began adetour which landed the rustic boots, all silently, behind the shed, at a spot where a knot-hole served as frame for the little picture. The rustic eye was fitted to the knot-hole while Vernon holdingBetty's hand gazed in Betty's face, and decided that this was no timeto analyse his sensations. 

Neither heard the furtive rustic tread, or noted the gleam of the palerustic eye. 

The labourer shook his head as he hurried quickly away. He haddaughters of his own, and the Rector had been kind when one of thosedaughters had suddenly come home from service, ill, and with noprospect of another place. 

"A-holdin' of hands and a-castin' of sheep's eyes, " said he. "We knowswhat that's the beginnings of! Well, well, youth's the season forsilliness, but there's bounds--there's bounds. And all of a mornin' soearly too. Lord above knows what it wouldn't be like of a evenin'. " Heshook his head again, and made haste. 

Vernon had forced his eyes to leave the face of Betty. 

"Your fortune, " he was saying, "is, curiously enough, just one ofthose fortunes I was speaking of. You will have great chances ofhappiness, if you have the courage to take them. You will cross thesea. You've never travelled, have you?"

"No, --never further than Torquay; I was at school there, you know; andLondon, of course. But I should love it. Isn't it horrid to think thatone might grow quite old and never have been anywhere or doneanything?"

"That depends on oneself, doesn't it? Adventures are to theadventurous. "

"Yes, that's all very well--girls can't be adventurous. "

"Yes, --it's the Prince who sets out to seek his fortune, isn't it? ThePrincess has to sit at home and wait for hers to come to her. Itgenerally does if she's a real Princess. "

"But half the fun must be the seeking for it, " said Betty. 

"You're right, " said he, "it is. "

The labourer had reached the park-gate. His pace had quickened to thequickening remembrance of his own daughter, sitting at home silent andsullen. 

"Do you really see it in my hand?" asked Betty, --"about my crossingthe sea, I mean. "

"It's there; but it depends on yourself, like everything else. "

"I did ask my step-father to let me go, " she said, "after that firstday, you know, when you said I ought to study in Paris. "

"And he wouldn't, of course?"

"No; he said Paris was a wicked place. It isn't really, is it?"

"Every place is wicked, " said he, "and every place is good. It's allas one takes things. "

The Rectory gate clicked sharply as it swung to behind the labourer. The Rectory gravel scrunched beneath the labourer's boots. 

Yes, the Master was up; he could be seen. 

The heavy boots were being rubbed against the birch broom that, rootedat Kentish back doors, stands to receive on its purple twigs thescrapings of Kentish clay from rustic feet. 

"You have the artistic lines very strongly marked, " Vernon was saying. "One, two, three--yes, painting--music perhaps?"

"I am very fond of music, " said Betty, thinking of the hour's dailystruggle with the Mikado and the Moonlight Sonata. "But three arts. What could the third one be?" Her thoughts played for an instant withunheard-of triumphs achieved behind footlights--rapturous applause, showers of bouquets. 

"Whatever it is, you've enormous talent for it, " he said; "you'll findout what it is in good time. Perhaps it'll be something much moreimportant than the other two put together, and perhaps you've got evenmore talent for it than you have for others. "

"But there isn't any other talent that I can think of. "

"I can think of a few. There's the stage, --but it's not that, I fancy, or not exactly that. There's literature--confess now, don't you writepoetry sometimes when you're all alone at night? Then there's the artof being amusing, and the art of being--of being liked. "

"Shall I be successful in any of the arts?"

"In one, certainly. "

"Ah, " said Betty, "if I could only go to Paris!"

"It's not always necessary to go to Paris for success in one's art, "he said. 

"But I want to go. I'm sure I could do better there. "

"Aren't you satisfied with your present Master?"

"Oh!"--It was a cry of genuine distress, of heartfelt disclaim. "You_know_ I didn't mean that! But you won't always be here, and whenyou've gone--why then--"

Again he had to control the involuntary movement of his left arm. 

"But I'm not going for months yet. Don't let us cross a bridge till wecome to it. Your head-line promises all sorts of wonderful things. Andyour heart-line--" he turned her hand more fully to the light. 

In the Rector's study the labourer was speaking, standing shufflinglyon the margin of the Turkey carpet. The Rector listened, his hand onan open folio where fat infants peered through the ornamentalinitials. 

"And so I come straight up to you, Sir, me being a father and you thesame, Sir, for all the difference betwixt our ways in life. Says I tomyself, says I, and bitter hard I feels it too, I says: 'George, ' saysI, 'you've got a daughter as begun that way, not a doubt ofit--holdin' of hands and sittin' close alongside, and you know what'scome to her!'"

The Rector shivered at the implication. 

"Then I says, says I: 'Like as not the Rector won't thank you forinterferin'. Least said soonest mended, ' says I. "

"I'm very much obliged to you, " said the Rector difficultly, and hishand shook on Ambrosius's yellow page. 

"You see, Sir, " the man's tone held all that deferent apology thattruth telling demands, "gells is gells, be they never so up in theworld, all the world over, bless their hearts; and young men is youngmen, d--n them, asking your pardon, Sir, I'm sure, but the wordslipped out. And I shouldn't ha' been easy if anything had have gonewrong with Miss, God bless her, all along of the want of a word inseason. Asking your pardon, Sir, but even young ladies is flesh andblood, when it comes to the point. Ain't they now?" he endedappealingly. 

The Rector spoke with an obvious effort, got his hand off the page andclosed the folio. 

"You've done quite right, George, " he said, "and I'm greatly obligedto you. Only I do ask you to keep this to yourself. You wouldn't haveliked it if people had heard a thing like that about your Rubybefore--I mean when she was at home. "

He replaced the two folios on the shelf. 

"Not me, Sir, " George answered. "I'm mum, I do assure you, Sir. And ifI might make so bold, you just pop on your hat and step acrostdirectly minute. There's that little hole back of the shed what I toldyou of. You ain't only got to pop your reverend eye to that there, andyou'll see for yourself as I ain't give tongue for no dragged scent. "

"Thank you, George, " said the Rector, "I will. Good morning. God blessyou. "

The formula came glibly, but it was from the lips only that it came. 

Lizzie--his white innocent Lily-girl! In a shed--a man, a stranger, holding her hand, his arm around her, his eyes--his lips perhaps, daring--

The Rector was half way down his garden drive. 

"Your heart-line, " Vernon was saying, "it's a little difficult. Youwill be deeply beloved. "

To have one's fortune told is disquieting. To keep silence during thetelling deepens the disquiet curiously. It seemed good to Betty tolaugh. 

"Soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, " she said, "which am I going tomarry, kind gipsy?"

"I don't believe the gipsies who say they can see marriage in a hand, "he answered gravely, and Betty feared he had thought her flippant, oreven vulgar; "what one sees are not the shadows of coming conventions. One sees the great emotional events, the things that change and mouldand develop character. Yes, you will be greatly beloved, and you willlove deeply. "

"I'm not to be happy in my affairs of the heart then. " Still a carefulflippancy seemed best to Betty. 

"Did I say so? Do you really think that there are no happy loveaffairs but those that end in a wedding breakfast and bridesmaids, with a Bazaar show of hideous silver and still more hideous crockery, and all one's relations assembled to dissect one's most sacredsecrets?"

Betty had thought so, but it seemed coarse to own it. 

"Can't you imagine, " he went on dreamily, "a love affair so perfectthat it could not but lose its finest fragrance if the world werecalled to watch the plucking of love's flower? Can't you imagine alove so great, so deep, so tender, so absolutely possessing the wholelife of the lover that he would almost grudge any manifestation of it?Because such a manifestation must necessarily be a repetition of someof the ways in which unworthy loves have been manifested, by lesshappy lovers? I can seem to see that one might love the one love of alife-time, and be content to hold the treasure in one's heart, atreasure such as no other man ever had, and grudge even a word or alook that might make it less the single perfect rose of the world. "

"Oh, dear!" said Betty to herself. 

"But I'm talking like a book, " he said, and laughed. "I always getdreamy and absurd when I tell fortunes. Anyway, as I said before, youwill be greatly beloved. Indeed, unless your hand is very untruthful, which I'm sure it never could be, you are beloved now, far more thanyou can possibly guess. "

Betty caught at her flippancy but it evaded her, and all she found tosay was, "Oh, " and her eyes fell. 

There was a silence. Vernon still held her hand, but he was no longerlooking at it. 

A black figure darkened the daylight. 

The two on the plough started up--started apart. Nothing more waswanted to convince the Rector of all that he least wished to believe. 

"Go home, Lizzie, " he said, "go to your room, " and to her his facelooked the face of a fiend. It is hard to control the muscles under asudden emotion compounded of sorrow, sympathy and an immeasurablepity. "Go to your room and stay there till I send for you. "

Betty went, like a beaten dog. 

The Rector turned to the young man. 

"Now, Sir, " he said. 

CHAPTER V. 

THE PRISONER. 

When Vernon looked back on that interview he was honestly pleased withhimself. He had been patient, he had been kind even. In the end he hadbeen positively chivalrous. He had hardly allowed himself to beruffled for an instant, but had met the bitter flow of Mr. Underwood'sbiblical language with perfect courtesy. 

He regretted, of course, deeply, this unfortunate misunderstanding. Accident had made him acquainted with Miss Desmond's talent, he hadmerely offered her a little of that help which between brotherartists--The well-worn phrase had not for the Rector the charm it hadhad for Betty. 

The Rector spoke again, and Mr. Vernon listened, bare-headed, indeepest deference. 

No, he had not been holding Miss Desmond's hand--he had merely beentelling her fortune. No one could regret more profoundly than he, --andso on. He was much wounded by Mr. Underwood's unworthy suspicions. 

The Rector ran through a few texts. His pulpit denunciations ofiniquity, though always earnest, had lacked this eloquence. 

Vernon listened quietly. 

"I can only express my regret that my thoughtlessness should haveannoyed you, and beg you not to blame Miss Desmond. It was perhaps alittle unconventional, but--"

"Unconventional--to try to ruin--"

Mr. Vernon held up his hand: he was genuinely shocked. 

"Forgive me, " he said, "but I can't hear such words in connectionwith--with a lady for whom I have the deepest respect. You are heatednow, Sir, and I can make every allowance for your natural vexation. But I must ask you not to overstep the bounds of decency. "

The Rector bit his lip, and Vernon went on:

"I have listened to your abuse--yes, your abuse--without defendingmyself, but I can't allow anyone, even her father, to say a wordagainst her. "

"I am not her father, " said the old man bitterly. And on the instantVernon understood him as Betty had never done. The young man's tonechanged instantly. 

"Look here, " he said, and his face grew almost boyish, "I am reallymost awfully sorry. The whole thing--what there is of it, and it'svery little--was entirely my doing. It was inexcusably thoughtless. Miss Desmond is very young and very innocent. It is I who ought tohave known better, --and perhaps I did. But the country is very dull, and it was a real pleasure to teach so apt a pupil. "

He spoke eagerly, and the ring of truth was in his voice. But theRector felt that he was listening to the excuses of a serpent. 

"Then you'd have me believe that you don't even love her?"

"No more than she does me, " said Vernon very truly. "I've neverbreathed a word of love to her, " he went on; "such an idea neverentered our heads. She's a charming girl, and I admire her immensely, but--" he sought hastily for a weapon, and defended Betty with thefirst that came to hand, "I am already engaged to another lady. It isentirely as an artist that I am interested in Miss Betty. "

"Serpent, " said the Rector within himself, "Lying serpent!"

Vernon was addressing himself silently in terms not more flattering. "Fool, idiot, brute to let the child in for this!--for it's going tobe a hell of a time for her, anyhow. And as for me--well, the game isup, absolutely up!"

"I am really most awfully sorry, " he said again. 

"I find it difficult to believe in the sincerity of your repentance, "said the Rector frowning. 

"My regret you may believe in, " said Vernon stiffly. "There is noground for even the mention of such a word as repentance. "

"If your repentance is sincere"--he underlined the word--"you willleave Long Barton to-day. "

Leave without a word, a sign from Betty--a word or a sign to her? Itmight be best--if--

"I will go, Sir, if you will let me have your assurance that you willsay nothing to Miss Desmond, that you won't make her unhappy, thatyou'll let the whole matter drop. "

"I will make no bargains with you!" cried the Rector. "Do your worst!Thank God I can defend her from you!"

"She needs no defence. It's not I who am lacking in respect andconsideration for her, " said Vernon a little hotly, "but, as I say, I'll go--if you'll just promise to be gentle with her. "

"I do not need to be taught my duty by a villain, Sir!--" The oldclergyman was trembling with rage. "I wish to God I were a youngerman, that I might chastise you for the hound you are. " His upraisedcane shook in his hand. "Words are thrown away on you! I'm sorry Ican't use the only arguments that can come home to a puppy!"

"If you were a younger man, " said Vernon slowly, "your words would nothave been thrown away on me. They would have had the answer theydeserved. I shall not leave Long Barton, and I shall see Miss Desmondwhen and how I choose. "

"Long Barton shall know you in your true character, Sir, I promiseyou. "

"So you would blacken her to blacken me? One sees how it is that shedoes not love her father. "

He meant to be cruel, but it was not till he saw the green shadowsround the old man's lips that he knew just how cruel he had been. Thequivering old mouth opened and closed and opened, the cold eyesgleamed. And the trembling hand in one nervous movement raised thecane and struck the other man sharply across the face. It was ahysterical blow, like a woman's, and with it the tears sprang to thefaded eyes. 

Then it was that Vernon behaved well. When he thought of it afterwardshe decided that he had behaved astonishingly well. 

With the smart of that cut stinging on his flesh, the mark of itrising red and angry across his cheek, he stepped back a pace, andwithout a word, without a retaliatory movement, without even a changeof facial expression he executed the most elaborately courteous bow, as of one treading a minuet, recovered the upright and walked awaybareheaded. The old clergyman was left planted there, the cane stilljigging up and down in his shaking hand. 

"A little theatrical, perhaps, " mused Vernon, when the cover of thewood gave him leave to lay his fingers to his throbbing cheek, "butnothing could have annoyed the old chap more. "

However effective it may be to turn the other cheek, the turning of itdoes not cool one's passions, and he walked through the wood angrierthan he ever remembered being. But the cool rain dripping from thehazel and sweet chestnut leaves fell pleasantly on his uncovered headand flushed face. Before he was through the wood he was able to laugh, and the laugh was a real laugh, if rather a rueful one. Vernon couldnever keep angry very long. 

"Poor old devil!" he said. "He'll have to put a special clause in thegeneral confession next Sunday. Poor old devil! And poor little Betty!And poorest me! Because, however, we look at it, and however we mayhave damn well bluffed over it, the game _is_ up--absolutely up. "

When one has a definite end in view--marriage, let us say, or anelopement, --secret correspondences, the surmounting of garden walls, the bribery of servants, are in the picture. But in a small sweetidyll, with no backbone of intention to it, these things areinartistic. And Vernon was, above and before all, an artist. He mustgo away and he knew it. And his picture was not finished. Could hepossibly leave that incomplete? The thought pricked sharply. He hadnot made much progress with the picture in these last days. It hadbeen pleasanter to work at the portrait of Betty. If he moved to thenext village? Yes, that must be thought over. 

He spent the day thinking of that and of other things. 

The Reverend Cecil Underwood stood where he was left till the man hehad struck had passed out of sight. Then the cane slipped through hishand and fell rattling to the ground. He looked down at it curiously. Then he reached out both hands vaguely and touched the shaft of theplough. He felt his way along it, and sat down, where they had sat, staring dully before him at the shadows in the shed, and at the steadyfall of the rain outside. Betty's mackintosh was lying on the floor. He picked it up presently and smoothed out the creases. Then hewatched the rain again. 

An hour had passed before he got stiffly up and went home, with hercloak on his arm. 

Yes, Miss Lizzie was in her room--had a headache. He sent up herbreakfast, arranging the food himself, and calling back the maidbecause the tray lacked marmalade. 

Then he poured out his own tea, and sat stirring it till it was cold. 

She was in her room, waiting for him to send for her. He must send forher. He must speak to her. But what could he say? What was there tosay that would not be a cruelty? What was there to ask that would notbe a challenge to her to lie, as the serpent had lied?

"I am glad I struck him, " the Reverend Cecil told himself again andagain; "_that_ brought it home to him. He was quite cowed. He could donothing but bow and cringe away. Yes, I am glad. "

But the girl? The serpent had asked him to be gentle with her--haddared to ask him. He could think of no way gentle enough for dealingwith this crisis. The habit of prayer caught him. He prayed forguidance. 

Then quite suddenly he saw what to do. 

"That will be best, " he said; "she will feel that less. "

He rang and ordered the fly from the Peal of Bells, went to his roomto change his old coat for a better one, since appearances must bekept up, even if the heart be breaking. His thin hair was disordered, and his tie, he noticed, was oddly crumpled, as though strange handshad been busy with his throat. He put on a fresh tie, smoothed hishair, and went down again. As he passed, he lingered a moment outsideher door. 

Betty watching with red eyes and swollen lips saw him enter the fly, saw him give an order, heard the door bang. The old coachman clamberedclumsily to his place, and the carriage lumbered down the drive. 

"Oh, how cruel he is! He might have spoken to me _now_! I suppose he'sgoing to keep me waiting for days, as a penance. And I haven't reallydone anything wrong. It's a shame! I've a good mind to run away!"

Running away required consideration. In the meantime, since he was outof the house, there was no reason why she should not go downstairs. She was not a child to be kept to her room in disgrace. She bathed herdistorted face, powdered it, and tried to think that the servants, should they see her, would notice nothing. 

Where had he gone? For no goal within his parish would a hiredcarriage be needed. He had gone to Sevenoaks or to the station. Perhaps he had gone to Westerham--there was a convent there, aProtestant sisterhood. Perhaps he was going to make arrangements forshutting her up there! Never!--Betty would die first. At least shewould run away first. But where could one run to?

The aunts? Betty loved the aunts, but she distrusted their age. Theywere too old to sympathise really with her. They would most likelyunderstand as little as her step-father had done. An Inward Monitortold Betty that the story of the fortune-telling, of the seven stolenmeetings with no love-making in them, would sound very unconvincing toany ears but those of the one person already convinced. But she wouldnot be shut up in a convent--no, not by fifty aunts and a hundredstep-fathers!

She would go to Him. He would understand. He was the only person whoever had understood. She would go straight to him and ask him what todo. He would advise her. He was so clever, so good, so noble. Whateverhe advised would be _right_. 

Trembling and in a cold white rage of determination, Betty fastened onher hat, found her gloves and purse. The mackintosh she remembered hadbeen left in the shed. She pictured her step-father trampling fiercelyupon it as he told Mr. Vernon what he thought of him. She took hergolf cape. 

At the last moment she hesitated. Mr. Vernon would not be idle. Whatwould he be doing? Suppose he should send a note? Suppose he hadwatched Mr. Underwood drive away and should come boldly up and ask forher? Was it wise to leave the house? But perhaps he would be hangingabout the church yard, or watching from the park for a glimpse of her. She would at least go out and see. 

"I'll leave a farewell letter, " she said, "in case I never come back. "

She found her little blotting-book--envelopes, but no paper. Ofcourse! One can't with dignity write cutting farewells on envelopes. She tore a page from her diary. 

"You have driven me to this, " she wrote. "I am going away, and in timeI shall try to forgive you all the petty meannesses and cruelties ofall these years. I know you always hated me, but you might have hadsome pity. All my life I shall bear the marks on my soul of the bittertyranny I have endured here. Now I am going away out into the world, and God knows what will become of me. "

She folded, enveloped, and addressed the note, stuck a long hat-pinfiercely through it, and left it, patent, speared to her pin-cushion, with her step-father's name uppermost. 

"Good-bye, little room, " she said. "I feel I shall never see youagain. "

Slowly and sadly she crossed the room and turned the handle of thedoor. The door was locked. 

Once, years ago, a happier man than the Reverend Cecil had been Rectorof Long Barton. And in the room that now was Betty's he had had ironbars fixed to the two windows, because that room was the nursery. 

 * * * * *

That evening, after dinner, Mr. Vernon sat at his parlour windowlooking idly along the wet bowling-green to the belt of lilacs and thepale gleams of watery sunset behind them. He had passed a disquietingday. He hated to leave things unfinished. And now the idyll was ruinedand the picture threatened, --and Betty's portrait was not finished, and never would be. 

"Come in, " he said; and his landlady heavily followed up her tap onhis door. 

"A lady to see you, Sir, " said she with a look that seemed to him tobe almost a wink. 

"A lady? To see me? Good Lord!" said Vernon. Among all the thoughts ofthe day this was the one thought that had not come to him. 

"Shall I show her in?" the woman asked, and she eyed him curiously. 

"A lady, " he repeated. "Did she give her name?"

"Yes, Sir. Miss Desmond, Sir. Shall I shew her in?"

"Yes; shew her in, of course, " he answered irritably. 

And to himself he said:

"The Devil!"

CHAPTER VI. 

THE CRIMINAL. 

If you have found yourself, at the age of eighteen, a prisoner in yourown bedroom you will be able to feel with Betty. Not otherwise. Evenyour highly strung imagination will be impotent to present to you theecstasy of rage, terror, resentment that fills the soul when lockeddoor and barred windows say, quite quietly, but beyond appeal: "Hereyou are, and here, my good child, you stay. "

All the little familiar objects, the intimate associations of thefurniture of a room that has been for years your boudoir as well asyour sleeping room, all the decorations that you fondly dreamed gave toyour room a _cachet_--the mark of a distinctive personality, --theseare of no more comfort to you than would be strange bare stone wallsand a close unfamiliar iron grating. 

Betty tried to shake the window bars, but they were immovable. Shetried to force the door open, but her silver buttonhook was aninsufficient lever, and her tooth-brush handle broke when she pittedit in conflict against the heavy, old-fashioned lock. We have all readhow prisoners, outwitting their gaolers, have filed bars with theirpocket nail-scissors, and cut the locks out of old oak doors with thesmall blade of a penknife. Betty's door was only of pine, but herknife broke off short; and the file on her little scissors wore itselfsmooth against the first unmoved bar. 

She paced the room like a caged lioness. We read that did the lionessbut know her strength her bars were easily shattered by one blow ofher powerful paw. Betty's little pink paws were not powerful like thelioness's, and when she tried to make them help her, she broke hernails and hurt herself. 

It was this moment that Letitia chose for rapping at the door. 

"You can't come in. What is it?" Betty was prompt to say. 

"Mrs. Edwardes's Albert, Miss, come for the Maternity bag. "

"It's all ready in the school-room cupboard, " Betty called through thedoor. "Number three. "

She resisted an impulse to say that she had broken the key in the lockand to send for the locksmith. No: there should be no scandal at LongBarton, --at least not while she had to stay in it. 

She did not cry. She was sick with fury, and anger made her heart beatas Vernon had never had power to make it. 

"I will be calm. I won't lose my head, " she told herself again andagain. She drank some water. She made herself eat the neglectedbreakfast. She got out her diary and wrote in it, in a handwritingthat was not Betty's, and with a hand that shook like totter-grass. 

"What will become of me? What has become of _him_? My step-father musthave done something horrible to him. Perhaps he has had him put inprison; of course he couldn't do that in these modern times, like inthe French revolution, just for talking to some one he hadn't beenintroduced to, but he may have done it for trespassing, or damage tothe crops, or something. I feel quite certain something has happenedto him. He would never have deserted me like this in my misery if hewere free. And I can do nothing to help him--nothing. How shall I livethrough the day? How can I bear it? And this awful trouble has comeupon him just because he was kind to another artist. The world isvery, very, very cruel. I wish I were dead!" She blotted the words andlocked away the book. Then she burnt that farewell note and went andsat in the window-seat to watch for her step-father's return. 

The time was long. At last he came. She saw him open the carriage doorand reach out a flat foot, feeling for the carriage step. He steppedout, turned and thrust a hand back into the cab. Was he about to handout a stern-faced Protestant sister, who would take her to Westerham, and she would never be heard of again? Betty set her teeth and waitedanxiously to see if the sister seemed strong. Betty was, and she wouldfight for her liberty. With teeth and nails if need were. 

It was no Protestant sister to whom the Reverend Cecil had reached hishand. It was only his umbrella. Betty breathed again. 

Well, now at least he'll come and speak to me: he must come himself;even _he_ couldn't give the key to the servants and say: "Please goand unlock Miss Lizzie and bring her down!"

Betty would not move. "I shall just stay here and pretend I didn'tknow the door was locked, " said she. 

But her impatience drove her back to the caged-lioness walk and whenat last she heard the key turn in the door she had only just time tospring to the window-seat and compose herself in an attitude ofgraceful defiance. 

It was thrown away. 

The door only opened wide enough to admit a dinner tray pushed in by ahand she knew. Then the door closed again. 

The same thing happened with tea and supper. 

It was not till after supper that Betty, gazing out on the pale waterysunset, found it blurred to her eyes. There was no more hope now. Shewas a prisoner. If He was not a prisoner he ought to be. It was theonly thing that could excuse his silence. He might at least have goneby the gate or waved a handkerchief. Well, all was over between them, and Betty was alone in the world. She had not cried all day, but nowshe did cry. 

 * * * * *

Vernon always prided himself on having a heart for any fate, but thiswas one of the interviews that one would rather have avoided. All dayhe had schooled himself to resignation, had almost reconciled himselfto the spoiling of what had promised to be a masterpiece. Explicationswith Betty would brush the bloom off everything. Yet he must play thepart well. But what part? Oh, hang all meddlers!

"Miss Desmond, " said the landlady; and he braced his nerves to meet atearful, an indignant or a desperate Betty. 

But there was no Betty to be met; no Betty of any kind. 

Instead, a short squarely-built middle-aged lady walked briskly intothe room, and turned to see the door well closed before she advancedtowards him. 

He bowed with indescribable emotions. 

"Mr. Eustace Vernon?" said the lady. She wore a sensible short skirtand square-toed brown boots. Her hat was boat-shaped and her abundanthair was screwed up so as to be well out of her way. Her face wassquare and sensible like her shoulders, and her boots. Her eyes dark, clear and near sighted. She wore gold-rimmed spectacles and carried acrutch-handled cane. No vision could have been less like Betty. 

Vernon bowed, and moved a chair towards her. 

"Thank you, " she said, and took it. "Now, Mr. Vernon, sit down too, and let's talk this over like reasonable beings. You may smoke if youlike. It clears the brain. "

Vernon sat down and mechanically took out a cigarette, but he held itunlighted. 

"Now, " said the square lady, leaning her elbows on the table and herchin on her hands, "I am Betty's aunt. "

"It is very good of you to come, " said Vernon helplessly. 

"Not at all, " she briskly answered. "Now tell me all about it. "

"There's nothing to tell, " said Vernon. 

"Perhaps it will clear the ground a little if I say at once that Ihaven't come to ask your intentions, because of course you haven'tany. My reverend brother-in-law, on the other hand, insists that youhave, and that they are strictly dishonourable. "

Vernon laughed, and drew a breath of relief. 

"I fear Mr. Underwood misunderstood, --" he said, "and--"

"He is a born misunderstander, " said Miss Julia Desmond. "Now, I'mnot. Light your cigarette, man; you can give me one if you like, tokeep you in countenance. A light--thanks. Now will you speak, or shallI?"

"You seem to have more to say than I, Miss Desmond. "

"Ah, that's because you don't trust me. In other words, you don't knowme. That's one of the most annoying things in life: to be really anexcellent sort, and to be quite unable to make people see it at thefirst go-off. Well, here goes. My worthy brother-in-law finds you andmy niece holding hands in a shed. "

"We were not, " said Vernon. "I was telling her fortune--"

"It's my lead now, " interrupted the lady. "Your turn next. He beingwhat he is--to the pure all things are impure, you know--instantlydraws the most harrowing conclusions, hits you with a stick. --By theway, you behaved uncommonly well about that. "

"Thank you, " said Vernon, smiling a little. It is pleasant to beappreciated. 

"Yes, really very decently, indeed. I daresay it wouldn't have hurt afly, but if you'd been the sort of man he thinks you are--Howeverthat's neither here nor there. He hits you with a stick, locks thechild into her room--What did you say?"

"Nothing, " said Vernon. 

"All right. I didn't hear it. Locks her in her room, and wires to mysister. Takes a carriage to Sevenoaks to do it too, to avoid scandal. I happen to be at my sister's, on my way from Cairo to Norway, so Iundertake to run down. He meets me at the station, and wants me to gostraight home and blackguard Betty. But I prefer to deal withprincipals. "

"You mean--"

"I mean that I know as well as you do that whatever has happened hasbeen your doing and not that dear little idiot's. Now, are you goingto tell me about it?"

He had rehearsed already a form of words in which "Brother artists"should have loomed large. But now that he rose, shrugged his shouldersand spoke, it was in words that had not been rehearsed. 

"Look here, Miss Desmond, " said he, "the fact is, you're right. Ihaven't any intentions--certainly not dishonourable ones. But I wasfrightfully bored in the country, and your niece is bored, too--morebored than I am. No one ever understands or pities the boredom of thevery young, " he added pensively. 

"Well?"

"Well, that's all there is to it. I liked meeting her, and she likedmeeting me. "

"And the fortune-telling? Do you mean to tell me you didn't enjoyholding the child's hand and putting her in a silly flutter?"

"I deny the flutter, " he said, "but--Well, yes, of course I enjoyedit. You wouldn't believe me if I said I didn't. "

"No, " said she. 

"I enjoyed it more than I expected to, " he added with a frankness thathe had not meant to use, "much more. But I didn't say a word oflove---only perhaps--"

"Only perhaps you made the idea of it underlie every word you didspeak. Don't I know?" said Miss Desmond. "Bless the man, I've beenyoung myself!"

"Miss Betty is very charming, " said he, "and--and if I hadn't mether--"

"If you hadn't met her some other man would. True; but I fancy herfather would rather it had been some other man. "

"I didn't mean that in the least, " said Vernon with some heat. "Imeant that if I hadn't met her she would have gone on being bored, andso should I. Don't think me a humbug, Miss Desmond. I am more sorrythan I can say that I should have been the means of causing her anyunhappiness. "

"'Causing her unhappiness, '--poor little Betty, poor little trustinginnocent silly little girl! That's about it, isn't it?"

It was so like it that he hotly answered:

"Not in the least. "

"Well, well, " said Miss Desmond, "there's no great harm done. She'llget over it, and more's been lost on market days. Thanks. "

She lighted a second cigarette and sat very upright, the cigarette inher mouth and her hands on the handle of her stick. 

"You can't help it, of course. Men with your coloured eyes never can. That green hazel--girls ought to be taught at school that it's adanger-signal. Only, since your heart's not in the business any morethan her's is--as you say, you were both bored to death--I want to askyou, as a personal favour to me, just to let the whole thing drop. Letthe girl alone. Go right away. "

"It's an unimportant detail, and I'm ashamed to mention it, " saidVernon, "but I've got a picture on hand--I'm painting a bit of theWarren. "

"Well, go to Low Barton and put up there and finish your preciouspicture. You won't see Betty again unless you run after her. "

"To tell the truth, " said Vernon, "I had already decided to let thewhole thing drop. I'm ashamed of the trouble I've caused her and--andI've taken rooms at Low Barton. "

"Upon my word, " said Miss Desmond, "you are the coldest lover I'veever set eyes on. "

"I'm not a lover, " he answered swiftly. "Do you wish I were?"

"For Betty's sake, I'm glad you aren't. But I think I should respectyou more if you weren't quite so arctic. "

"I'm not an incendiary, at any rate, " said he, "and that's something, with my coloured eyes, isn't it?"

"Well, " she said, "whatever your temperature is, I rather like you. Idon't wonder at Betty in the least. "

Vernon bowed. 

"All I ask is your promise that you'll not speak to her again. "

"I can't promise that, you know. I can't be rude to her. But I'llpromise not to go out of my way to meet her again. " He sighed. 

"As, yes--it is sad--all that time wasted and no rabbits caught. "Again Miss Desmond had gone unpleasantly near his thought. Of coursehe said:

"You don't understand me. "

"Near enough, " said Miss Desmond; "and now I'll go. "

"Let me thank you for coming, " said Vernon eagerly; "it was more thangood of you. I must own that my heart sank when I knew it was MissBetty's aunt who honoured me with a visit. But I am most glad youcame. I never would have believed that a lady could be so reasonableand--and--"

"And gentlemanly?" said the lady. "Yes, --it's my brother-in-law who isthe old woman, poor dear! You see, Mr. Vernon, I've been running roundthe world for five and twenty years, and I've kept my eyes open. Andwhen I was of an age to be silly, the man I was silly about had yourcoloured eyes. He married an actress, poor fellow, --or rather, shemarried him, before he could say 'knife. ' That's the sort of thingthat'll happen to you, unless you're uncommonly careful. So that'ssettled. You give me your word not to try to see Betty?"

"I give you my word. You won't believe in my regret--"

"I believe in that right enough. It must be simply sickening to havethe whole show given away like this. Oh, I believe in your regret!"

"My regret, " said Vernon steadily, "for any pain I may have causedyour niece. Do please see how grateful I am to you for having seen atonce that it was not her fault at all, but wholly mine. "

"Very nicely said: good boy!" said Betty's aunt. "Well, my excellentbrother-in-law is waiting outside in the fly, gnashing his respectableteeth, no doubt, and inferring all sorts of complications from thelength of our interview. Good-bye. You're just the sort of young man Ilike, and I'm sorry we haven't met on a happier footing. I'm sure weshould have got on together. Don't you think so?"

"I'm sure we should, " said he truly. "Mayn't I hope--"

She laughed outright. 

"You have indeed the passion for acquaintance without introduction, "she said. "No, you may _not_ call on me in town. Besides, I'm neverthere. Good-bye. And take care of yourself. You're bound to be bittensome day you know, and bitten badly. "

"I wish I thought you forgave me. "

"Forgive you? Of course I forgive you! You can no more help makinglove, I suppose--no, don't interrupt: the thing's the same whateveryou call it--you can no more help making love than a cat can helpstealing cream. Only one day the cat gets caught, and badly beaten, and one day you'll get caught, and the beating will be a bad one, unless I'm a greater fool than I take myself for. And now I'll go andunlock Betty's prison and console her. Don't worry about her. I'll seethat she's not put upon. Good night. No, in the circumstances you'dbetter _not_ see me to my carriage!"

She shook hands cordially, and left Vernon to his thoughts. 

Miss Desmond had done what she came to do, and he knew it. It wasalmost a relief to feel that now he could not try to see Betty howevermuch he wished it, --however much he might know her to wish it. Heshrugged his shoulders and lighted another cigarette. 

 * * * * *

Betty, worn out with crying, had fallen asleep. The sound of wheelsroused her. It seemed to rain cabs at the Rectory to-day. 

There were voices in the hall, steps on the stairs. Her door wasunlocked and there entered no tray of prisoner's fare, no reproachfulstep-father, no Protestant sister, but a brisk and well-loved aunt, who shut the door, and spoke. 

"All in the dark?" she said. "Where are you, child?"

"Here, " said Betty. 

"Let me strike a light. Oh, yes, there you are!"

"Oh, aunt, --has he sent for you?" said Betty fearfully. "Oh, don'tscold me, auntie! I am so tired. I don't think I can bear any more. "

"I'm not going to scold you, you silly little kitten, " said the auntcheerfully. "Come, buck up! It's nothing so very awful, after all. You'll be laughing at it all before a fortnight's over. "

"Then he hasn't told you?"

"Oh, yes, he has; he's told me everything there was to tell, and a lotmore, too. Don't worry, child. You just go straight to bed and I'lltuck you up, and we'll talk it all over in the morning. "

"Aunty, " said Betty, obediently beginning to unfasten her dress, "didhe say anything about _Him_?"

"Well, yes--a little. "

"He hasn't--hasn't done anything to him, has he?"

"What could he do? Giving drawing lessons isn't a hanging matter, Bet. "

"I haven't heard anything from him all day, --and I thought--"

"You won't hear anything more of him, Betty, my dear. I've seen yourMr. Vernon, and a very nice young man he is, too. He's frightfully cutup about having got you into a row, and he sees that the only thing hecan do is to go quietly away. I needn't tell you, Betty, though Ishall have to explain it very thoroughly to your father, that Mr. Vernon is no more in love with you than you are with him. In fact he'sengaged to another girl. He's just interested in you as a promisingpupil. "

"Yes, " said Betty, "of course I know that. "

CHAPTER VII. 

THE ESCAPE. 

"It's all turned out exactly like what I said it was going to, exactlyto a T, " said Mrs. Symes, wrapping her wet arms in her apron andleaning them on the fence; "if it wasn't that it's Tuesday and mebehindhand as it is, I'd tell you all about it. "

"Do the things good to lay a bit in the rinse-water, " said Mrs. James, also leaning on the fence, "sorter whitens them's what I always say. Idon't mind if I lend you a hand with the wringing after. What's turnedout like you said it was going to?"

"Miss Betty's decline. " Mrs. Symes laughed low and huskily. "What didI tell you, Mrs. James?"

"I don't quite remember not just at the minute, " said Mrs. James; "youtells so many things. "

"And well for some people I do. Else they wouldn't never know nothing. I told you as it wasn't no decline Miss Betty was setting down under. I said it was only what's natural, her being the age she is. I saidwhat she wanted was a young man, and I said she'd get one. And what doyou think?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. "

"She did get one, " said Mrs. Symes impressively, "that same week, justas if she'd been a-listening to my very words. It was as it might beFriday you and me had that little talk. Well, as it might be theSaturday, she meets the young man, a-painting pictures in theWarren--my Ernest's youngest saw 'em a-talking, and told his motherwhen he come home to his dinner. "

"To think of that, and me never hearing a word!" said Mrs. James withfrank regret. 

"I knew it ud be 'Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, '" Mrs. Symeswent on with cumbrous enjoyment, "and so it was. They used to keeptheir rondyvoos in the wood--six o'clock in the morning. Mrs. Wilson'sTom used to see 'em reg'lar every day as he went by to his work. "

"Lor, " said Mrs. James feebly. 

"Of course Tom he never said nothing, except to a few friends of hisover a glass. They enjoyed the joke, I promise you. But old GeorgeMarbould--he ain't never been quite right in his head, I don't think, since his Ruby went wrong. Pity, I always think. A great clumsyplain-faced girl like her might a kept herself respectable. She hadn'tthe temptation some of us might have had in our young days. "

"No indeed, " said Mrs. James, smoothing her hair, "and oldGeorge--what silliness was he up to this time?"

"Why he sees the two of 'em together one fine morning and 'stead ofdoing like he'd be done by he ups to the Vicarage and tells the oldman. 'You come alonger me, Sir, ' says he, 'and have a look at yourdaughter a-kissin' and huggin' up in Beale's shed, along of a perfectstranger. ' So the old man he says, 'God bless you, '--George is proudof him saying that--and off he goes, in a regular fanteague, beats theyoung master to a jelly, for all he's an old man and feeble, and shutsMiss up in her room. Now that wouldn't a been _my_ way. "

"No, indeed, " said Mrs. James. 

"I should a asked him in, " said Mrs. Symes, "if it had been a gell ofmine, and give him a good meal with a glass of ale to it, and a tiddydrop of something to top up with, and I'd a let him light his nastypipe, --and then when he was full and contented I'd a up and said, 'Now my man, you've 'ad time to think it over, and no one can't say asI've hurried you nor flurried you. But it's time as we began talking. So just you tell me what you're a-goin to do about it. If you 'ave thefeelings of a man, ' I'd a said 'you'll marry the girl. '"

"Yes, indeed, " said Mrs. James with emotion. 

"Instead of which, bless your 'art, he beats the young man off with astick, like as if he was a mad dog; and young Miss is a goin' to besent to furrin parts to a strick boardin' school, to learn her not tohave any truck with young chaps. "

"'Ard, I call it, " said Mrs. James. 

"An' well you may--crooil 'ard. How's he expect the girl to get ahusband if he drives the young fellers away with walking-sticks? Poregell! I shouldn't wonder but what she lives and dies a maid, afterthis set-out. "

"We shall miss 'er when she goes, " said Mrs. James. 

"I don't say we shan't. But there ain't no one as you can't get onwithout if you're put to it And whether or not, she's going to farforeign parts where there ain't no young chaps. "

"Poor young thing, " said Mrs. James, very sympathetic. "I think I'lldrop in as I'm passing, and see how she takes it"

"If you do, " said Mrs. Symes, unrolling her arms, white and wrinkledwith washing, to set them aggressively on her lips, "it's the lastword as passes between us, Mrs. James, so now you know. "

"Lord, Maria, don't fly out at me that way. " Mrs. James shrank back:"How was I to know you'd take it like that?"

"Do you suppose, " asked Mrs. Symes, "as no one ain't got no legsexcept you? _I'm_ a going up, soon as I've got the things on the lineand cleaned myself. I only heard it after I'd got every blessed rag insoak, or I'd a gone up afore. "

"Mightn't I step up with you for company?" Mrs. James asked. 

"No, you mightn't. But I don't mind dropping in as I come home, totell you about it. One of them Catholic Nunnery schools, I expect, which it's sudden death to a man but to set his foot into. "

"Poor young thing, " said Mrs. James again. 

 * * * * *

Betty was going to Paris. 

There had been "much talk about and about" the project. Now it was tobe. 

There had been interviews. 

There was the first in which the elder Miss Desmond told herbrother-in-law in the plain speech she loved exactly what sort of afool he had made of himself in the matter of Betty and thefortune-telling. 

When he was convinced of error--it was not easily done--he would haveliked to tell Betty that he was sorry, but he belonged to a generationthat does not apologise to the next. 

The second interview was between the aunt and Betty. That was the onein which so much good advice was given. 

"You know, " the aunt wound up, "all young women want to be in love, and all young men too. I don't mean that there was anything of thatsort between you and your artist friend. But there might have been. Now look here, --I'm going to speak quite straight to you. Don't youever let young men get monkeying about with your hands; whether theycall it fortune-telling or whether they don't, their reason for doingso is always the same--or likely to be. And you want to keep yourhand--as well as your lips--for the man you're going to marry. That'sall, but don't you forget it. Now what's this I hear about yourwanting to go to Paris?"

"I did want to go, " said Betty, "but I don't care about anything now. Everything's hateful. "

"It always is, " said the aunt, "but it won't always be. "

"Don't think I care a straw about not seeing Mr. Vernon again, " saidBetty hastily. "It's not that. "

"Of course not, " said the aunt sympathetically. 

"No, --but Father was so hateful--you've no idea. If I'd--if I'd runaway and got married secretly he couldn't have made more fuss. "

"You're a little harsh--just a little. Of course you and I knowexactly how it was, but remember how it looked to him. Why, itcouldn't have looked worse if you really _had_ been arranging anelopement. "

"He _hadn't_ got his arm around me, " insisted Betty; "it was somewhereright away in the background. He was holding himself up with it. "

"Don't I tell you I understand all that perfectly? What I want tounderstand is how you feel about Paris. Are you absolutely off theidea?"

"I couldn't go if I wasn't. "

"I wonder what you think Paris is like, " mused the aunt. "I supposeyou think it's all one wild razzle-dazzle--one delirious round of--ofmuseums and picture galleries. "

"No, I don't, " said Betty rather shortly. 

"If you went you'd have to work. "

"There's no chance of my going. "

"Then we'll put the idea away and say no more about it. Get me myContinental Bradshaw out of my dressing-bag: I'm no use here. Nobodyloves me, and I'll go to Norway by the first omnibus to-morrowmorning. "

"Don't, " said Betty; "how can you say nobody loves you?"

"Your step-father doesn't, anyway. That's why I can make him do what Ilike when I take the trouble. When people love you they'll never doanything for you, --not even answer a plain question with a plain yesor no. Go and get the Bradshaw. You'll be sorry when I'm gone. "

"Aunt Julia, you don't really mean it. "

"Of course not. I never mean anything except the things I don't say. The Bradshaw!"

Betty came and sat on the arm of her aunt's chair. 

"It's not fair to tease me, " she said, "and tantalise me. You know howmizzy I am. "

"No. I don't know anything. You won't tell me anything. Go and get--"

"Dear, darling, pretty, kind, clever Aunt, " cried Betty, "I'd give myears to go. "

"Then borrow a large knife from cook, and sharpen it on the frontdoor-step! No--I don't mean to use it on your step-father. I'll haveyour pretty ears mummified and wear them on my watch-chain. No--mindmy spectacles! Let me go. I daresay it won't come to anything. "

"Do you really mean you'd take me?"

"I'd take you fast enough, but I wouldn't keep you. We must find adragon to guard the Princess. Oh, we'll get a nice tame kind puss-catof a dragon, --but that dragon will not be your Aunt Julia! Let me go, I say. I thought you didn't care about anything any more?"

"I didn't know there could be anything to care for, " said Bettyhonestly, "especially Paris. Well, I won't if you hate it so, but oh, aunt--" She still sat on the floor by the chair her aunt had left, andthought and thought. The aunt went straight down to the study. 

"Now, Cecil, " she said, coming briskly in and shutting the door, "you've made that poor child hate the thought of you and you've onlyyourself to thank. "

"I know you think so, " said he, closing the heavy book over which hehad been stooping. 

"I don't mean, " she added hastily, for she was not a cruel woman, "that she really hates you, of course. But you've frightened her, andshaken her nerves, locking her up in her room like that. Upon my word, you are old enough to know better!"

"I was so alarmed, so shaken myself--" he began, but she interruptedhim. 

"I didn't come in and disturb your work just to say all that, ofcourse, " she said, "but really, Cecil, I understand things better thanyou think. I know how fond you really are of Betty. "

The Reverend Cecil doubted this; but he said nothing. 

"And you know that I'm fond enough of the child myself. Now, all thishas upset you both tremendously. What do you propose to do?"

"I--I--nothing I thought. The less said about these deplorable affairsthe better. Lizzie will soon recover her natural tone, and forget allabout the matter. "

"Then you mean to let everything go on in the old way?"

"Why, of course, " said he uneasily. 

"Well, it's your own affair, naturally, " she spoke with a studied airof detachment which worried him exactly as it was meant to do. 

"What do you mean?" he asked anxiously. He had never been able whollyto approve Miss Julia Desmond. She smoked cigarettes, and he could notthink that this would have been respectable in any other woman. Ofcourse, she was different from any other woman, but still--. Then theReverend Cecil could not deem it womanly to explore, unchaperoned, theless well-known quarters of four continents, to penetrate even toregions where skirts were considered improper and side-saddles wereunknown. Even the nearness of Miss Desmond's fiftieth birthday hardlylessened at all the poignancy of his disapproval. Besides, she had notalways been fifty, and she had always, in his recollection of her, smoked cigarettes, and travelled alone. Yet he had a certainwell-founded respect for her judgment, and for that fine luminouscommon-sense of hers which had more than once shewn him his ownmistakes. On the rare occasions when he and she had differed he hadalways realized, later, that she had been in the right. And she was"gentlemanly" enough never once to have said: "I told you so!"

"What do you mean?" he asked again, for she was silent, her hands inthe pockets of her long coat, her sensible brown shoes stickingstraight out in front of her chair. 

"If you really want to know, I'll tell you, " she said, "but I hate tointerfere in other people's business. You see, I know how deeply shehas felt this, and of course I know you have too, so I wonderedwhether you hadn't thought of some little plan for--for altering thecircumstances a little, so that everything will blow over and settledown, so that when you and she come together again you'll be betterfriends than ever. "

"Come together again, " he repeated, and the paper-knife was stillrestless, "do you want me to let her go away? To London?"

Visions of Lizzie, in unseemly low-necked dresses surrounded by crowdsof young men--all possible Vernons--lent a sudden firmness to hisvoice, a sudden alertness to his manner. "

"No, certainly not, " she answered the voice and the manner as much asthe words. "I shouldn't dream of such a thing. Then it hadn't occurredto you?"

"It certainly had not. "

"You see, " she said earnestly, "it's like this--at least this is how Isee it: She's all shaken and upset, and so are you, and when I'vegone--and I must go in a very little time--you'll both of you simplysettle down to thinking over it all, and you'll grow farther andfarther apart!"

"I don't think so, " said he; "things like this always right themselvesif one leaves them alone. Lizzie and I have always got on very welltogether, in a quiet way. We are neither of us demonstrative. "

"Now Heaven help the man!" was the woman's thought. She rememberedBetty's clinging arms, her heartfelt kisses, the fervency of the voicethat said, "Dear darling, pretty, kind, clever Aunt! I'd give my earsto go. " Betty not demonstrative! Heaven help the man!

"No, " she said, "I know. But when people are young these thinksrankle. "

"They won't with her, " he said. "She has a singularly noble nature, under that quiet exterior. "

Miss Desmond drew a long breath and began afresh. 

"Then there's another thing. She's fretting over this--thinks now thatit was something to be ashamed of; she didn't think so at the time, ofcourse. "

"You mean that it was I who--"

This was thin ice again. Miss Desmond skated quickly away from itwith, "Well, you see, I've been talking to her. She really _is_fretting. Why she's got ever so much thinner in the last week. "

"I could get a locum, " he said slowly, "and take her to a HydropathicEstablishment for a fortnight. "

"Oh dear, oh dear!" said Miss Desmond to herself. Aloud she said:"That _would_ be delightful, later. But just now--well, of course it'sfor you to decide, --but it seems to me that it would be better for youtwo to be apart for a while. If you're here alone together--well, thevery sight of you will remind each other--That's not grammar, as yousay, but--"

He had not said anything. He was thinking, fingering the brass bosseson the corners of the divine Augustine, and tracing the pattern on thestamped pigskin. 

"Of course if you care to risk it, " she went on still with that fineair of detachment, --"but I have seen breaches that nothing could healarise in just that way. "

Two people sitting down together and thinking over everything they hadagainst each other. "

"But I've nothing against Lizzie. "

"I daresay not, " Miss Desmond lost patience at last, "but she hasagainst you, or will have if you let her stay here brooding over it. However if you like to risk it--I'm sorry I spoke. " She got up andmoved to the door. 

"No, no, " he said hastily, "do not be sorry you spoke. You have givenme food for reflection. I will think it all over quietly and--and--"he did not like to talk about prayers to Miss Desmond somehow, "and--calmly and if I see that you are right--I am sure you mean mostkindly by me. "

"Indeed I do, " she said heartily, and gave him her hand in the manlyway he hated. He took it, held it limply an instant, and repeated:

"Most kindly. "

He thought it over for so long that the aunt almost lost hope. 

"I have to hold my tongue with both hands to keep it quiet. And if Isay another word I shall spoil the song, " she told Betty. "I've donemy absolute best. If that doesn't fetch him, nothing will!"

It had "fetched him. " At the end of two interminable days he sent toask Miss Desmond to speak to him in the study. She went. 

"I have been thinking carefully, " he said, "most carefully. And I feelthat you are right. Perhaps I owe her some amends. Do you know of anyquiet country place?"

Miss Desmond thought Betty had perhaps for the moment had almostenough of quiet country places. 

"She is very anxious to learn drawing, " he said, "and perhaps if Ipermitted her to do so she might understand it as a sign that Icherish no resentment on account of what has passed. But--"

"I know the very thing, " said the Aunt, and went on to tell of MadameGautier, of her cloistral home in Paris where she received a fewfavoured young girls, of the vigilant maid who conducted them to andfrom their studies, of the quiet villa on the Marne where in thesummer an able master--at least 60 or 65 years of age--conductedsketching parties, to which the students were accompanied either byMadame herself, or by the dragon-maid. 

"I'll stand the child six months with her, " she said, "or a year even. So it won't cost you anything. And Madame Gautier is in London now. You could run up and talk to her yourself. "

"Does she speak English?" he asked, anxiously, and being reassuredquestioned further. 

"And you?" he asked. And when he heard that Norway for a month andthen America en route for Japan formed Miss Desmond's programme forthe next year he was only just able to mask, with a cough, his deepsigh of relief. For, however much he might respect her judgment, hewas always easier when Lizzie and her Aunt Julia were not together. 

He went up to town, and found Madame Gautier, the widow of a Frenchpastor, established in a Bloomsbury boarding-house. She was a womanafter his own heart--severe, simple, earnest. If he had to part withhis Lizzie, he told himself in the returning train, it could be to nobetter keeper than this. 

He himself announced his decision to Betty. 

"I have decided, " he said, and he spoke very coldly because it was sovery difficult to speak at all, "to grant you the wish you expressedsome time ago. You shall go to Paris and learn drawing. "

"Do you really mean it?" said Betty, as coldly as he. 

"I am not in the habit of saying things which I do not mean. "

"Thank you very much, " said Betty. "I will work hard, and try that themoney shan't be wasted. "

"Your aunt has kindly offered to pay your expenses. "

"When do I go?" asked Betty. 

"As soon as your garments can be prepared. I trust that I shall nothave cause to regret the confidence I have decided to place in you. "

His phrasing was seldom well-inspired. Had he said, "I trust you, mychild, and I know I shan't regret it, " which was what he meant, shewould have come to meet him more than half-way. As it was she said, "Thank you!" again, and left him without more words. He sighed. 

"I don't believe she is pleased after all; but she sees I am doing itfor her good. Now it comes to the point her heart sinks at the idea ofleaving home. But she will understand my motives. "

The one thought Betty gave him was:

"He can't bear the sight of me at all now! He's longing to be rid ofme! Well, thank Heaven I'm going to Paris! I will have a grass-lawndress over green, with three rows of narrow lace insertion, and a hatwith yellow roses and--oh, it can't be true. It's too good to be true. Well, it's a good thing to be hated sometimes, by some people, if theyonly hate you enough!"

 * * * * *

"'So you're going to foreign parts, Miss, ' says I. "

Mrs. Symes had flung back her bonnet strings and was holding asaucerful of boiling tea skilfully poised on the fingers of one hand. "'Yes, Mrs. Symes, ' says she, 'don't you wish you was going too?' shesays. And she laughed, but I'm not easy blinded, and well I see as sheonly laughed to 'ide a bleedin' 'art. 'Not me, Miss, ' says I; 'nicefigure I should look a-goin' to a furrin' boardin' school at my timeof life. '

"'It ain't boardin' school, ' says she. 'I'm a-going to learn to paintpictures. I'll paint your portrait when I come home, ' says she, andlaughs again--I could see she done it to keep the tears back. 

"'I'm sorry for you, Miss, I'm sure, ' I says, not to lose the chanceof a word in season, 'but I hope it'll prove a blessing to you--I dothat. '"

"'Oh, it'll be a blessing right enough, ' says she, and keeps onlaughing a bit wild like. When the art's full you can't always stopyourself. She'd a done better to 'ave a good cry and tell me 'ertroubles. I could a cheered her up a bit p'raps. You know whether I'mconsidered a comfort at funerals and christenings, Mrs. James. "

"I do, " said Mrs. James sadly; "none don't know it better. "

"You'd a thought she'd a bin glad of a friend in need. But no. Shejust goes on a-laughing fit to bring tears to your eyes to hear her, and says she, 'I hope you'll all get on all right without me. '"

"I hope you said as how we should miss her something dreadful, " saidMrs. James anxiously, "Have another cup. "

"Thank you, my dear. Do you take me for a born loony? Course I did. Said the parish wouldn't be the same without her, and about her prettyreading and all. See here what she give me. "

Mrs. James unrolled a violet petticoat. 

"Good as new, almost, " she said, looking critically at the hem. "Specially her being taller'n me. So what's not can be cut away, andno loss. She kep' on a-laughing an' a-smiling till the old man he comein and he says in his mimicking way, 'Lizzie, ' says 'e, 'they'rea-waitin' to fit on your new walkin' costoom, ' he says. So I comeaway, she a-smiling to the last something awful to see. "

"Dear, dear, " said Mrs. James. 

"But you mark my words--she don't deceive _me_. If ever I see abruised reed and a broken 'art on a young gell's face I see it onhers this day. She may laugh herself black in the face, but she won'tlaugh me into thinking what I knows to be far otherwise. "

"Ah, " said Mrs. James resignedly, "we all 'as it to bear one time oranother. Young gells is very deceitful though, in their ways, ain'tthey?"

Book 2. --The Man

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE ONE AND THE OTHER. 

"Some idiot, " remarked Eustace Vernon, sipping Vermouth at a littletable, "insists that, if you sit long enough outside the Café de laPaix, you will see everyone you have ever known or ever wanted to knowpass by. I have sat here for half-an-hour--and--_voila_. "

"You met me, half an hour ago, " said the other man. 

"Oh, _you_!" said Vernon affectionately. 

"And your hat has gone off every half minute ever since, " said theother man. 

"Ah, that's to the people I've known. It's the people I've wanted toknow that are the rarity. "

"Do you mean people you have wanted to know and not known?"

"There aren't many of those, " said Vernon; "no it's--Jove, that's asweet woman!"

"I hate the type, " said the other man briefly: "all clothes--no realhuman being. "

The woman was beautifully dressed, in the key whose harmonies are onlymastered by Frenchwomen and Americans. She turned her head as hercarriage passed, and Vernon's hat went off once more. 

"I'd forgotten her profile, " said Vernon, "and she's learned how todress since I saw her last. She's quite human, really, and as charmingas anyone ought to be. "

"So I should think, " said the other man. "I'm sorry I said that, but Ididn't know you knew her. How's trade?"

"Oh, I did a picture--well, but a picture! I did it in England in theSpring. Best thing I've done yet. Come and see it. "

"I should like to look you up. Where do you hang out?"

"Eighty-six bis Rue Notre Dame des Champs, " said Vernon. "Everyone infiction lives there. It's the only street on the other side thatauthors seem ever to have dreamed of. Still, it's convenient, so Iherd there with all sorts of blackguards, heroes and villains and whatnot. Eighty-six bis. "

"I'll come, " said the other man, slowly. "Do you know, Vernon, I'dlike awfully to get at your point of view--your philosophy of life?"

"Haven't you got one, my dear chap!--'sufficient unto' is my motto. "

"You paint pictures, ", the other went on, "so very much too good forthe sort of life you lead. "

Vernon laughed. 

"My dear Temple, " he said, "I live, mostly, the life of a vestalvirgin. "

"You know well enough I'm not quarrelling with the way you spend yourevenings, " said his dear Temple; "it's your whole outlook that doesn'tmatch your work. Yet there must be some relation between the two, that's what I'd like to get at. "

There is a bond stronger than friendship, stronger than love--a bondthat cannot be forged in any other shop than the one--the bond betweenold schoolfellows. Vernon had sometimes wondered why he "stood somuch" from Temple. It is a wonder that old schoolfellows often feel, mutually. 

"The subject you've started, " said he, "is of course, to me, the mostinteresting. Please develop your thesis. "

"Well then, your pictures are good, strong, thorough stuff, withsentiment--yes, just enough sentiment to keep them from the brutalityof Degas or the sensualism of Latouche. Whereas you, yourself, seem tohave no sentiment. "

"I? No sentiment! Oh, Bobby, this is too much! Why, I'm a mass of it!Ask--"

"Yes, ask any woman of your acquaintance. That's just it--or just partof it. You fool them into thinking--oh, I don't know what; but youdon't fool me. "

"I haven't tried. "

"Then you're not brutal, except half a dozen times in the year whenyou--And I've noticed that when your temper goes smash your morals goat the same time. Is that cause or effect? What's the real you like, and where do you keep it?"

"The real me, " said Vernon, "is seen in my pictures, and--andappreciated by my friends; you for instance, are, I believe, genuinelyattached to me. "

"Oh, rot!" said Bobby. 

"I don't see, " said Vernon, moving his iron chair to make room for twopeople at the next table, "why you should expect my pictures to rhymewith my life. A man's art doesn't rhyme with his personality. Mostoften it contradicts flatly. Look at musicians--what a divine art, andwhat pigs of high priests! And look at actors--but no, one can't; thespectacle is too sickening. "

"I sometimes think, " said Temple, emptying his glass, "that the realyou isn't made yet. It's waiting for--"

"For the refining touch of a woman's hand, eh? You think the real meis--Oh, Temple, Temple, I've no heart for these childish imaginings!The real me is the man that paints pictures, damn good pictures, too, though I say it. "

"And is that what all the women think?

"Ask them, my dear chap; ask them. They won't tell you the truth. "

"They're not the only ones who won't. I should like to know what youreally think of women, Vernon. "

"I don't think about them at all, " lied Vernon equably. "They aren'tsubjects for thought but for emotion--and even of that as little asmay be. It's impossible seriously to regard a woman as a human being;she's merely a dear, delightful, dainty--"

"Plaything?"

"Well, yes--or rather a very delicately tuned musical instrument. Ifyou know the scales and the common chords, you can improvise nicelittle airs and charming variations. She's a sort of--well, a pennywhistle, and the music you get depends not on her at all, but on yourown technique. "

"I've never been in love, " said Temple; "not seriously, I mean, " hehastened to add, for Vernon was smiling, "not a life or death matter, don't you know; but I do hate the way you talk, and one of these daysyou'll hate it too. "

Miss Desmond's warning floated up through the dim waters of half ayear. 

"So a lady told me, only last Spring, " he said. "Well, I'll take mychance. Going? Well, I'm glad we ran across each other. Don't forgetto look me up. "

Temple moved off, and Vernon was left alone. He sat idly smokingcigarette after cigarette, and watched the shifting crowd. It was abright October day, and the crowd was a gay one. 

Suddenly his fingers tightened on his cigarette, --but he kept thehand that held it before his face, and he bent his head forward. 

Two ladies were passing, on foot. One was the elder Miss Desmond--shewho had warned him that one of these days he would be caught--and theother, hanging lovingly on her aunt's arm, was, of course, Betty. Buta smart, changed, awakened Betty! She was dressed almost asbeautifully as the lady whose profile he had failed to recognise, butmuch more simply. Her eyes were alight, and she was babbling away toher aunt. She was even gesticulating a little, for all the world likea French girl. He noted the well-gloved hand with which she emphasizedsome point in her talk. 

"That's the hand, " he said, "that I held when we sat on the plough inthe shed and I told her fortune. "

He had risen, and his feet led him along the road they had taken. Tenyards ahead of him he saw the swing of the aunt's serviceable brownskirt and beside it Betty's green and gray. 

"I am not breaking my word, " he replied to the Inward Monitor. "Who'sgoing out of his way to speak to the girl?"

He watched the brown gown and the green all the way down the Boulevarddes Capucines, saw them cross the road and go up the steps of theMadeleine. He paused at the corner. It was hard, certainly, to keephis promise; yet so far it was easy, because he could not well recallhimself to the Misses Desmond on the ground of his having six monthsago involved the one in a row with her relations, and discussed thesituation afterwards with the other. 

"I do wonder where they're staying, though, " he told himself. "If onewere properly introduced--?" But he knew that the aunt would considerno introduction a proper one that should renew his acquaintance withBetty. 

"Wolf, wolf, " he said, "let the fold alone! There's no door for you, and you've pledged your sacred word as an honourable wolf not to jumpany more hurdles. "

And as he stood musing, the elder Miss Desmond came down the churchsteps and walked briskly away. 

Some men would, doubtless, have followed her example, if not herdirection. Vernon was not one of these. He found himself going up thesteps of the great church. He had as good a right to go into theMadeleine as the next man. He would probably not see the girl. If hedid he would not speak. Almost certainly he would not even see her. 

But Destiny had remembered Mr. Vernon once more. Betty was standingjust inside the door, her face upturned, and all her soul in her eyes. The mutterings of the organ and the voices of boys filled the greatdark building. 

He went and stood close by her. He would not speak. He would keep hisword. But she should have a chance of speaking. His eyes were on herface. The hymn ended. She exhaled a held breath, started and spoke. 

"You?" she said, "_you_?" The two words are spelled alike. Spoken, they are capable of infinite variations. The first "you" sent Vernon'sblood leaping. The second froze it to what it had been before he mether. For indeed that little unfinished idyll had been almost forgottenby the man who sat drinking Vermouth outside the Café de la Paix. 

"How are you?" he whispered. "Won't you shake hands?"

She gave him a limp and unresponsive glove. 

"I had almost forgotten you, " she said, "but I am glad to seeyou--because--Come to the door. I don't like talking in churches. "

They stood on the steps behind one of the great pillars. 

"Do you think it is wise to stand here?" he said. "Your aunt might seeus. "

"So you followed us in?" said Betty with perfect self-possession. "That was very kind. I have often wished to see you, to tell you howmuch obliged I am for all your kindness in the Spring. I was only achild then, and I didn't understand, but now I quite see how good itwas of you. "

"Why do you talk like that?" he said. "You don't think--you can'tthink it was my fault?"

"Your fault! What?"

"Why, your father finding us and--"

"Oh, _that_!" she said lightly. "Oh, I had forgotten that! Ridiculous, wasn't it? No, I mean your kindness in giving so many hours toteaching a perfect duffer. Well, now I've seen you and said what I hadto say, I think I'll go back. "

"No, don't go, " he said. "I want to know--oh, all sorts of things! Ican see your aunt from afar, and fly if she approaches. "

"You don't suppose, " said Betty, opening her eyes at him, "that Ishan't tell her I've seen you?"

He had supposed it, and cursed his clumsiness. 

"Ah, I see, " she went on, "you think I should deceive my aunt nowbecause I deceived my step-father in the Spring. But I was a childthen, --and besides, I'm fond of my aunt. "

"Did you know that she came to see me?"

"Of course. You seem to think we live in an atmosphere of deceit, Mr. Vernon. "

"What's the matter with you?" he said bluntly, for finer weaponsseemed useless. "What have I done to make you hate me?"

"I hate you? Oh, no--not in the least, " said Betty spitefully. I amvery grateful to you for all your kindness. "

"Where are you staying?" he asked. 

"Hotel Bête, " said Betty, off her guard, "but--"

The "but" marked his first score. 

"I wish I could have called to see your aunt, " he said carelessly, "but I am off to Vienna to-morrow. "

Betty believed that she did not change countenance by a hair'sbreadth. 

"I hope you'll have a delightful time, " she said politely. 

"Thanks. I am sure I shall. The only consolation for leaving Paris isthat one is going to Vienna. Are you here for long?"

"I don't know. " Betty was on her guard again. 

"Paris is a delightful city, isn't it?"

"Most charming. "

"Have you been here long?"

"No, not very long. "

"Are you still working at your painting? It would be a pity to givethat up. "

"I am not working just now. "

"I see your aunt, " he said hurriedly. "Are you going to send me awaylike this? Don't be so unjust, so ungenerous. It's not like you--mypupil of last Spring was not unjust. "

"Your pupil of last Spring was a child and a duffer, Mr. Vernon, as Isaid before. But she is grateful to you for one thing--no, two. "

"What's the other?" he asked swiftly. 

"Your drawing-lessons, " she demurely answered. 

"Then what's the one?"

"Good-bye, " she said, and went down the steps to meet her aunt. Heeffaced himself behind a pillar. In spite of her new coldness, hecould not believe that she would tell her aunt of the meeting. And hewas right, though Betty's reasons were not his reasons. 

"What's the good?" she asked herself as she and her aunt walked acrossto their hotel. "He's going away to-morrow, and I shall never see himagain. Well, I behaved beautifully, that's one thing. He must simplyloathe me. So that's all right! If he were staying on in Paris, ofcourse I would tell her. "

She believed this fully. 

He waited five minutes behind that pillar, and then had himself drivento the Rue Notre Dame des Champs, choosing as driver a man with awhite hat, in strict accordance with the advice in Baedeker, though hehad never read any of the works of that author. 

This new Betty, with the smart gown and the distant manner, awoke atthe same time that she contradicted his memories of the Betty of LongBarton. And he should not see her again. Of course he was not going toVienna, but neither was he going to hang round the Hotel Bête, or tobribe Franz or Elise to smuggle notes to Miss Betty. 

"It's never any use trying to join things on again, " he told himself. "As well try to mend a spider's web when you have put your bootthrough it. "

 'No diver brings up love again Dropped once In such cold seas!'

"But what has happened? Why does she hate me so? You acted verynicely, dear, but that wasn't indifference. It was hatred, if everI've seen it. I wonder what it means? Another lover? No--then she'd besorry for me. It's something that belongs to me--not another man'sshadow. But what I shall never know. And she's prettier than ever, too. Oh, hang it!"

His key turned in the lock, and on the door-mat shewed the whitesquare of an envelope--a note from the other woman, the one whoseprofile he had not remembered. She was in Paris for a time. She hadseen him at the Paix, had wondered whether he had his old rooms, haddriven straight up on the chance of being able to leave this--wasn'tthat devotion?--and would he care to call for her at eight and theycould dine somewhere and talk over old times? One familiar initial, that of her first name, curled in the corner and the card smelt ofjasmine--not of jasmine-scent in bottles, but of the real flower. Hehad never known how she managed it. 

Vernon was not fond of talking over old times, but Betty would bedining at the Hotel Bête--some dull hole, no doubt; he had never heardof it. Well, he could not dine at the Bête, and after all one mustdine somewhere. And the other woman had never bored him. That is aterrible weapon in the hands of a rival. And Betty had been mostunjust. And what was Betty to him, anyway? His thoughts turned to theAmerican girl who had sketched with him in Brittany that Summer. Ah, if she had not been whisked back to New York by her people, it wouldnot now be a question of Betty or of the Jasmine lady. He took outMiss Van Tromp's portrait and sat looking at it: it was admirable, thefearless poise of the head, the laughing eyes, the full pouting lips. Then Betty's face and the face of the Jasmine lady came between himand Miss Van Tromp. 

"Bah, " he said, "smell, kiss, wear--at last throw away. Never keep arose till it's faded. " A little tide of Breton memories swept throughhim. 

"Bah, " he said again, "she was perfectly charming, but what is the useof charm, half the world away?"

He pulled his trunk from the front of the fire-place, pushed up theiron damper, and made a little fire. He burned all Miss Van Tromp'sletters, and her photograph--but, from habit, or from gratitude, hekissed it before he burned it. 

"Now, " said he as the last sparks died redly on the black embers, "thedecks are cleared for action. Shall I sentimentalise aboutBetty--cold, cruel, changed Betty--or shall I call for the Jasminelady?"

He did both, and the Jasmine lady might have found him dull. As ithappened, she only found him _distrait_, and that interested her. 

"When we parted, " she said, "it was I who was in tears. Now it's you. What is it?"

"If I am in tears, " he roused himself to say, "it is only becauseeverything passes, 'tout lasse, tout passe, tout casse. '"

"What's broken now?" she asked; "another heart? Oh, yes! you brokemine all to little, little bits. But I've mended it. I wantedfrightfully to see you to thank you!

"This is a grateful day for women, " thought Vernon, looking theinterrogatory. 

"Why, for showing me how hearts are broken, " she explained; "it'squite easy when you know how, and it's a perfectly delightful game. Iplay it myself now, and I can't imagine how I ever got on before Ilearned the rules. "

"You forget, " he said, smiling. "It was you who broke my heart. Andit's not mended yet. "

"That's very sweet of you. But really, you know, I'm very glad it wasyou who broke my heart, and not anyone else. Because, now it's mended, that gives us something to talk about. We have a past. That's reallywhat I wanted to tell you. And that's such a bond, isn't it? When itreally _is_ past--dead, you know, no nonsense about cataleptictrances, but stone dead. "

"Yes, " he said, "it is a link. But it isn't the past for me, you know. It can never--"

She held up a pretty jewelled hand. 

"Now, don't, " she said. "That's just what you don't understand. Allthat's out of the picture. I know you too well. Just realize that I'mthe only nice woman you know who doesn't either expect you to makelove 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'rein this mood. Bear with me if I seem idiotic to-night--I've beenburning 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 beensince?"

"Is this the Inquisition or is it Durand's?"

"It's somewhere where we both are, " she said, without a trace ofsentiment; "that's good enough for me. Do you know I've been marriedsince I saw you last? _And_ left a widow--in a short three months itall happened. And--well I'm not very clever, as you know, but--can youimagine what it is like to be married to a man who doesn't understanda 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 themotor 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 coursehe was. "

"Yes, of course, as you say. I was a model wife. I wore black for awhole 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'twant to disappoint you or hurt you, but only to have a good time, andthere's no nonsense about love to get in the way, and spoileverything. "

"So you're--But this isn't proper! Here am I dining with a lady and Idon't even know her name!"

"I know--I wouldn't put it to the note. Didn't that single initialarouse your suspicions? Her name? Her title if you please! I marriedHarry 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 butthe bones. If he had lived he would certainly have beaten me. Here'sto our new friendship!"

"Our new friendship!" he repeated, raising his glass and looking inher eyes. Lady St. Craye looked very beautiful, and Betty was notthere. In fact, just now there was no Betty. 

He went back to his room humming a song of Yvette Guilbert's. Theremight have been no flowering May, no buttercup meadows in all theworld, for any thought of memory that he had of them. And Betty was athousand miles away. 

That was at night. In the morning Betty was at the Hotel Bête, and theHotel Bête was no longer a petty little hotel which he did not knowand never should know. For the early post brought him a letter whichsaid:

"I am in Paris for a few days and should like to see you if you canmake it convenient to call at my hotel on Thursday. "

This was Tuesday. 

The letter was signed with the name of the uncle from whom Vernon hadexpectations, and at the head of the letter was the address:

 "Hôtel Bête, Cité de Retraite, Rue Boissy d'Anglais. "

"Now bear witness!" cried Vernon, appealing to the Universe, "bearwitness that this is _not_ my fault!"

CHAPTER IX. 

THE OPPORTUNITY. 

Vernon in those two days decided that he did not wish to see Bettyagain. She was angry with him, and, though he never for an instantdistrusted his power to dissipate the cloud, he felt that the liftingof it would leave him and her in that strong light wherein the frailflower of sentiment must wither and perish. Explications were fatal tothe delicate mystery, the ethereal half-lights, that Vernon loved. Above all things he detested the _trop dit_. 

Already a mood of much daylight was making him blink and shrink. Hesaw himself as he was--or nearly--and the spectacle did not pleasehim. The thought of Lady St. Craye was the only one that seemed tomake for any sort of complacency. The thought of Temple rankled oddly. 

"He likes me, and he dislikes himself for liking me. Why does he likeme? Why does anyone like me? I'm hanged if I know!"

This was the other side of his mood of most days, when the wonderseemed that everyone should not like him. Why shouldn't they?Ordinarily he was hanged if he knew that. 

He had expected a note from Lady St. Craye to follow up his dinnerwith her. He knew how a woman rarely resists the temptation to writeto the man in whom she is interested, even while his last words arestill ringing in her ears. But no note came, and he concluded thatLady St. Craye was not interested. This reassured while it piqued. 

The Hotel Bête is very near the Madeleine, and very near the heart ofParis--of gay Paris, that is, --yet it might have been a hundred milesfrom anywhere. You go along the Rue Boissy, and stopping at a gatewayyou turn into a dreary paved court, which is the Cité de la Retraite. Here the doors of the Hotel Bête open before you like the portals of amausoleum. There is no greeting from the Patronne; your arrival givesrise to no pleasant welcoming bustle. The concierge receives you, andyou see at once that her cheerful smile is assumed. No one couldreally be cheerful at the Hotel Bête. 

Vernon felt as though he was entering a family vault of the highestrespectability when he passed through its silent hall and enquired forMr. James Vernon. 

Monsieur Vernon was out. No, he had charged no one with a billet formonsieur. Monsieur Vernon would doubtless return for the déjeûner; itwas certain that he would return for the diner. Would Monsieur wait?

Monsieur waited, in a little stiff salon with glass doors, primfurniture, and an elaborately ornamental French clock. It was silent, of course. One wonders sometimes whether ornamental French Ormoluclocks have any works, or are solid throughout. For no one has everseen one of them going. 

There were day-old English papers on the table, and the New YorkHerald. Through the glass doors he could see everyone who came in orwent out. And he saw no one. There was a stillness as of the tomb. 

Even the waiter, now laying covers for the déjeûner, wore listslippers and his movements were silent as a heron's ghost-gray flight. 

He came to the glass door presently. 

"Did Monsieur breakfast?"

Vernon was not minded to waste two days in the pursuit of uncles. Herehe was, and here he stayed, till Uncle James should appear. 

Yes, decidedly, Monsieur breakfasted. 

He wondered where the clients of the hotel had hidden themselves. Werethey all dead, or merely sight-seeing? As his watch shewed him theapproach of half-past twelve he found himself listening for the trampof approaching feet, the rustle of returning skirts. And still all wassilent as the grave. 

The sudden summoning sound of a bell roused him from a dreamy wonderas to whether Betty and her aunt had already left. If not, should hemeet them at déjeûner? The idea of the possible meeting amused morethan it interested him. He crossed the hall and entered the long baresalle á manger. 

By Heaven--he was the only guest! A cover was laid for him only--no, at a distance of half the table for another. Then Betty and her aunthad gone. Well, so much the better. 

He unfolded his table-napkin. In another moment, doubtless, UncleJames would appear to fill the vacant place. 

But in another moment the vacant place was filled--and by Betty--Bettyalone, unchaperoned, and bristling with hostility. She bowed verycoldly, but she was crimson to the ears. He rose and came to herholding out his hand. 

With the waiter looking on, Betty had to give hers, but she gave it ina way that said very plainly:

"I am very surprised and not at all pleased to see you here. "

"This is a most unexpected pleasure, " he said very distinctly, andadded the truth about his uncle. 

"Has Monsieur Vernon yet returned?" he asked the waiter who hoveredanxiously near. 

"No, Monsieur was not yet of return. "

"So you see, " his look answered the speech of her hand, "it is not mydoing in the least. "

"I hope your aunt is well, " he went on, the waiter handing baked eggsthe while. 

"Quite well, thank you, " said Betty. "And how is your wife? I ought tohave asked yesterday, but I forgot. "

"My wife?"

"Oh, perhaps you aren't married yet. Of course my father told me ofyour engagement. "

She crumbled bread and smiled pleasantly. 

"So _that's_ it, " thought Vernon. "Fool that I was to forget it!"

"I am not married, " he said coldly, "nor have I ever been engaged tobe married. "

And he ate eggs stolidly wondering what her next move would be. It wasone that surprised him. For she leaned towards him and said in aperfectly new voice:

"Couldn't you get Franz to move you a little more this way? One can'tshout across these acres of tablecloth, and I've heaps of things totell you. "

He moved nearer, and once again he wronged Betty by a mentalshrinking. Was she really going to own that she had resented the newsof his engagement? She was really hopeless. He began to bristledefensively. 

[Illustration: "'Ah, don't be cross!' she said"]

"Anything you care to tell me will of course be of the greatestpossible interest, " he was beginning, but Betty interrupted him. 

"_Ah, don't be cross_!" she said. "I know I was perfectly horridyesterday, but I own I was rather hurt. "

"Hold back, " he adjured her, inwardly, "for Heaven's sake, hold back!"

"You see, " she went on, "you and I were such good friends--you'd beenso kind--and you told me--you talked to me about things you didn'ttalk of to other people, --and when I thought you'd told my step-fathera secret of yours that you'd never told me, of course I felthurt--anyone would have. "

"I see, " said he, beginning to. 

"Of course I never dreamed that he'd lied, and even now I don't see--"Then suddenly she did see and crimsoned again. 

"He didn't lie, " said Vernon carefully, "it was I. But I would neverhave told him anything that I wouldn't have told you--nor half that Idid tell you. "

The waiter handed pale meat. 

"Yes, the scenery in Brittany is most charming; I did some good workthere. The people are so primitive and delightful too. "

The waiter withdrew, and Betty said:

"How do you mean--he didn't lie?"

"The fact is, " said Vernon, "he--he did not understand our friendshipin the least. I imagine friendship was not invented when he was young. It's a tiresome subject, Miss Desmond; let's drop it--shall we?"

"If you like, " said she, chilly as December. 

"Oh, well then, just let me say it was done for your sake, MissDesmond. He had no idea that two people should have any interests incommon except--except matters of the heart, and the shortest way toconvince him was to tell him that my heart was elsewhere. I don't likelies, but there are some people who insist on lies--nothing else willconvince them of the truth. Here comes some abhorrent preparation ofrice. How goes it with art?"

"I have been working very hard, " she said, "but every day I seem toknow less and less. "

"Oh, that's all right! It's only that every day one knows more andmore--of how little one does know. You'll have to pass many milestonesbefore you pass out of that state. Do they always feed you like thishere?"

"Some days it's custard, " said Betty, "but we've only been here aweek. "

"We're friends again now, aren't we?" he questioned suddenly. 

"Yes--oh, yes!"

"Then I may ask questions. I want to hear what you've been doing sincewe parted, and where you've been, and how you come to Paris--and whereyour aunt is, and what she'll say to me when she comes in. "

"She likes you, " said Betty, "and she won't come in, but MadameGautier will. Aunt Julia went off this morning--she couldn't delay anylonger because of catching the P. & O. At Brindisi; and I'm to waithere till Madame Gautier comes at three. Auntie came all the way backfrom America to see whether I was happy here. She _is_ a dear!"

"And who is Madame Gautier? Is she also a dear? But let's have ourcoffee in the salon--and tell me everything from the beginning. "

"Yes, " said Betty, "oh, yes!"

But the salon window was darkened by a passing shape. 

"My uncle, bless him!" said Vernon. "I must go. See, here's my card!Won't you write and tell me all about everything? You will, won'tyou?"

"Yes, but you musn't write to me. Madame Gautier opens all ourletters, and friendships weren't invented when she was young either. Good-bye. "

Vernon had to go towards the strong English voice that was filling thehall with its inquiries for "Ung Mossoo--ung mossoo Anglay qui avoircertainmong etty icy ce mattan. "

Five minutes later Betty saw two figures go along the pavement on theother side of the decorous embroidered muslin blinds which, in theunlikely event of any happening in the Cite de la Retraite, ensure itsnot being distinctly seen by those who sojourn at the Hotel Bête. 

Betty instantly experienced that feminine longing which makes womenwrite to lovers or friends from whom they have but now parted, and shewas weaker than Lady St. Craye. There was nothing to do. Her trunkswere packed. She had before her two hours, or nearly, of waiting forMadame Gautier. So she wrote, and this is the letter, erasures andall. Vernon, when he got it, was most interested in the erasures heregiven in italics. 

 Dear Mr. Vernon:

 I am very glad we are good friends again, and I should like to tell you everything that has happened. (_After you, after he--when my step-father_). After the last time I saw you (_I was very unhappy because I wanted to go to Paris_) I was very anxious to go to Paris because of what you had said. My aunt came down and was very kind. (_She told me_) She persuaded my step-father to let me go. I think (_we_) he was glad to get rid of me, for (_somehow_) he never did care about me, any more than I did about him. There are a great many (_other_) things that he does not understand. Of course I was wild with joy and thought of nothing but (_what you_) work, and my aunt brought me over. But I did not see anything of Paris then. We went straight on to Joinville where Madame Gautier has a villa, and (_we_) my aunt left me there, and went to Norway. It was all very strange at first, but I liked it. Madame Gautier is very strict; it was like being at school. Sometimes I almost (_forgot_) fancied that I was at school again. There were three other girls besides me, and we had great fun. The Professor was very nice and encouraging. He is very old. So is everybody who comes to the house--(_but_) it (_was_) is jolly, because when there are four of you everything is so interesting. We used to have picnics in the woods, and take it in turn to ride in the donkey-cart. And there were musical evenings with the Pastor and the Avocat and their wives. It was very amusing sometimes. Madame Gautier had let her Paris flat, so we stayed at Joinville till a week ago, and then my Aunt walked in one day and took me to Paris for a week. I did enjoy that. And now aunt has gone, and Madame Gautier is taking the inventory and getting the keys, and presently she will come for me, I shall go with her to the Rue Vaugirard, Number 62. It will be very nice seeing the other girls again and telling them all about (_everything_) my week in Paris. I am so sorry that I shall not have the pleasure of seeing you again, but I am glad we met--because I do not like to think my friends do not trust me. 

 Yours sincerely, Betty Desmond. 

That was the letter which Betty posted. But the first letter she wrotewas quite different. It began:

 "You don't know, you never will know what it is to me to know that you did not deceive me. My dear friend, my only friend! And how I treated you yesterday! And how nobly you forgave me. I shall see you again. I must see you again. No one else has ever understood me. " And so on to the "True and constant friend Betty. "

She burned this letter. 

"The other must go, " she said, "that's the worst of life. If I sentthe one that's really written as I feel he'd think I was in love withhim or some nonsense. But a child who was just in two syllables mighthave written the other. So _that's_ all right. "

She looked at her watch. The same silver watch with which she had oncecrossed the hand of one who told her fortune. 

"How silly all that was!" she said. "I have learned wisdom now. Nearlyhalf-past three. I never knew Madame late before. "

And now Betty began to watch the windows for the arrival of herchaperone; and four o'clock came, and five, but no Madame Gautier. 

She went out at last and asked to see the Patronne, and to her sheexplained in a French whose fluency out-ran its correctness, that alady was to have called for her at three. It was now a quarter pastfive. What did Madame think she should do?

Madame was lethargic and uninterested. She had no idea. She could notadvise. Probably Mademoiselle would do well to wait always. 

The concierge was less aloof. 

But without doubt Madame, Mademoiselle's friend had forgotten thehour. She would arrive later, certainly. If not, Mademoiselle couldstay the night at the hotel, where a young lady would be perfectlywell, and go to Madame her friend in the morning. 

But Betty was not minded to stay the night alone at the Hótel Bête. For one thing she had very little money, --save that in the fatenvelope addressed to Madame Gautier which her aunt had given her. Itcontained, she knew, the money to pay for her board and lessons duringthe next six months, --for the elder Miss Desmond was off to India, Japan and Thibet, and her horror of banks and cheques made her verydownright in the matter of money. That in the envelope was all Bettyhad, and that was Madame Gautier's. But the other part of theadvice--to go to Madame Gautier's in the morning? If in the morning, why not now?

She decided to go now. No one opposed the idea much. Only Franz seemeda little disturbed and the concierge tepidly urged patience. 

But Betty was fretted by waiting. Also she knew that Vernon and hisuncle might return at any moment. And it would perhaps be awkward forhim to find her there--she would not for the world cause him amoment's annoyance. Besides he might think she had waited on thechance of seeing him again. That was not to be borne. 

"I will return and take my trunks, " she said; and a carriage wascalled. 

There was something very exhilarating in driving through the streetsof Paris, alone, in a nice little carriage with fat pneumatic tires. The street lamps were alight, and the shops not yet closed. Almostevery house seemed to be a shop. 

"I wonder where all the people live, " said Betty. 

The Place de la Concorde delighted her with its many lamps and itssplendid space. 

"How glorious it would be to live alone in Paris, " she thought, "bedriven about in cabs just when one liked and where one liked! Oh, I amtired of being a school-girl! I suppose they won't let me be grown uptill I'm so old I shall wish I was a school-girl again. "

She loved the river with its reflected lights, --but it made hershudder, too. 

"Of course I shall never be allowed to see the Morgue, " she said;"they won't let me see anything real. Even this little teeny tiny bitof a drive, I daresay it's not comme il faut! I do hope Madame won'tbe furious. She couldn't expect me to wait forever. Perhaps, too, she's ill, and no one to look after her. Oh, I'm sure I'm right togo. "

The doubt, however, grew as the carriage jolted through narrowerstreets, and when it drew up at an open carriage-door, Betty jumpedout, paid the coachman, and went in quite prepared to be scolded. 

She went through the doorway and stood looking for the list of namessuch as are set at the foot of the stairs leading to flats in London. There was no such list. From a lighted doorway on the right came ababel of shrill, high-pitched voices. Betty looked in at the door andthe voices ceased. 

"Pardon, Madame, " said Betty. "I seek Madame Gautier. "

Everyone in the crowded stuffy lamplit little room drew a deep breath. 

"Mademoiselle is without doubt one of Madame's young ladies?"

Perhaps it was the sudden hushing of the raised voices, perhaps it wassomething in the flushed faces that all turned towards her. To herdying day Betty will never know why she did not say "Yes. " What shedid say was:

"I am a friend of Madame's. Is she at home?"

"No, Mademoiselle, --she is not at home; she will never be at homemore, the poor lady. She is dead, Mademoiselle--an accident, one ofthose cursed automobiles ran over her at her very door, Mademoiselle, before our eyes. "

Betty felt sick. 

"Thank you, " she said, "it is very sudden. "

"Will Mademoiselle leave her name?" the concierge asked curiously. "The brother of Madame, he is in the commerce at Nantes. A telegrammehas been sent--he arrives to-morrow morning. He will give Mademoiselledetails. "

Again Betty said what she had not intended to say. She said:

"Miss Brown. " Perhaps the brother in the commerce vaguely suggestedthe addition, "of Manchester. "

Then she turned away, and got out of the light into the friendly duskof the street. 

"Tiens, but it is droll, " said the concierge's friend, "a young girl, and all alone like that. "

"Oh, it is nothing, " said the concierge; "the English are mad--all!Their young girls run the streets at all hours, and the Devil guardsthem. "

Betty stood in the street. She could not go back to that circle ofharpy faces, all eagerly tearing to pieces the details of poor oldMadame Gautier's death. She must be alone--think. She would have towrite home. Her father would come to fetch her. Her aunt was beyondthe reach of appeal. Her artist-life would be over. Everything wouldbe over. She would be dragged back to the Parishing and the Mothers'meetings and the black-cotton-covered books and the Sunday School. 

And she would never have lived in Paris at all!

She walked down the street. 

"I can't think--I _must_ think! I'll have this night to myself tothink in, anyway. I'll go to some cheap hotel. I have enough forthat. "

She hailed a passing carriage, drove to the Hotel Bête, took herluggage to the Gare du Nord, and left it there. 

Then as she stood on the station step, she felt something in her hand. It was the fat letter addressed to Madame Gautier. And she knew it wasfat with bank notes. 

She unfastened her dress and thrust the letter into her bosom, buttoning the dress carefully over it. 

"But I won't go to my hotel yet, " she said. "I won't even look forone. I'll see Paris a bit first. "

She hailed a coachman. 

"Go, " she said, "to some restaurant in the Latin Quarter--where theart students eat. "

"And I'm alone in Paris, and perfectly free, " said Betty, leaning backon the cushions. "No, I won't tell my coachman to drive along the RueNotre Dame des Champs, wherever that is. Oh, it is glorious to beperfectly free. Oh, poor Madame Gautier! Oh dear, oh dear!" She heldher breath and wondered why she could feel sorry. 

"You are a wretch, " she said, "poor Madame was kind to you in her hardnarrow way, and now is she lying cold and dead, all broken up by thatcruel motor car. "

The horror of the picture helped by Betty's excitement brought thetears and she encouraged them. 

"It is something to find one is not entirely heartless, " she said atlast, drying her eyes, as the carriage drew up at a place where therewere people and voices and many lights. 

CHAPTER X. 

SEEING LIFE. 

The thoughts of the two who loved her were with Betty that night. Theaunt, shaken, jolted, enduring much in the Paris, Lyons andMediterranean express thought fondly of her. 

"She's a nice little thing. I must take her about a bit, " she mused, and even encouraged her fancy to play with the idea of a Londonseason--a thing it had not done for years. 

The Reverend Cecil, curtains drawn and lamp alight, paused to think ofher even in the midst of his first thorough examination of his newesttreasure in Seventeenth Century Tracts, "The Man Mouse baited andtrapped for nibbling the margins of Eugenius Philalethes, being anassault on Henry Moore. " It was bound up with, "The Second Wash, orthe Moore scoured again, " and a dozen others. A dumpy octavo, in brownleather, he had found it propping a beer barrel in the next village. 

"Dear Lizzie!--I wonder if she will ever care for really importantthings. There must be treasures upon treasures in those boxes on theFrench quays that one reads about. But she never would learn to knowone type from another. "

He studied the fire thoughtfully. 

"I wonder if she does understand how much she is to me, " he thought. "Those are the things that are better unsaid. At least I always thinkso when she's here. But all these months--I wonder whether girls likeyou to _say things_, or to leave them to be understood. It is moredelicate not to say them, perhaps. "

Then his thoughts went back to the other Lizzie, about whom he hadnever felt these doubts. He had loved her, and had told her so. Andshe had told him her half of the story in very simple words--and mostsimply, and without at all "leaving things to be understood" they hadplanned the future that never was to be. He remembered the day whensitting over the drawing-room fire, and holding her dear hand he hadsaid:

"This is how we shall sit when we are old and gray, dearest. " It hadseemed so impossibly far-off then. 

And she had said:

"I hope we shall die the same day, Cec. "

But this had not happened. 

And he had said:

"And we shall have such a beautiful life--doing good, and working forGod, and bringing up our children in the right way. Oh, Lizzie, it'svery wonderful to think of that happiness, isn't it?"

And she had laid her head on his shoulder and whispered:

"I hope we shall have a little girl, dear. "

And he had said:

"I shall call her Elizabeth, after my dear wife. "

"She must have eyes like yours though. "

"She will be exactly like both of us, " he had said, and they sat handin hand, and talked innocently, like two children, of the little childthat was never to be. 

He had wanted them to put on her tombstone, Lizzie daughter of ----and affianced wife of Cecil Underwood, but her mother had said that_there_ there was no marrying or giving in marriage. In his heart theReverend Cecil had sometimes dared to hope that that text had beenmisunderstood. To him his Lizzie had always been "as the angels of Godin Heaven. "

Then came the long broken years, and then the little girl--Elizabeth, his step-child. 

The pent-up love of all his life spent itself on her: a love so fond, so tender, so sacred that it seemed only self-respecting to hide it alittle from the world by a mask of coldness. And Betty had never seenanything but the mask. 

"I think, when I see her, I will tell her all about my Lizzie, " hesaid. "I wonder if she knows what the house is like without her. Butof course she doesn't, or she would have asked to come home, long ago. I wonder whether she misses me very much. Madame Gautier is kind, shesays; but no stranger can make a home, as love can make it. "

Meanwhile Betty dining alone at a restaurant in the Boulevard St. Michel, within a mile of the Serpent, ordered what she called a nicedinner--it was mostly vegetables and sweet things--and ate it withappetite, looking about her. The long mirrors, the waiters were likethe ones in London restaurants, but the people who ate there they weredifferent. Everything was much shabbier, yet much gayer. Shopkeeping-looking men were dining with their wives; some of them hada child, napkin under chin, solemnly struggling with a big soup spoonor upturning on its little nose a tumbler of weak red wine and water. There were students--she knew them by their slouched hats and beards aday old--dining by twos and threes and fours. No one took any morenotice of Betty than was shewn by a careless glance or two. She wasvery quietly dressed. Her hat even was rather an unbecoming brownthing. When she had eaten, she ordered coffee, and began to try tothink, but thinking was difficult with the loud voices and thelaughter, and the clink of glasses and the waiters' hurrying transits. And at the back of her mind was a thought waiting for her to think it. And she was afraid. 

So presently she paid her bill, and went out, and found a tram, androde on the top of it through the lighted streets, on the level of thefirst floor windows and the brown leaves of the trees in theBoulevards, and went away and away through the heart of Paris; andstill all her mind could do nothing but thrust off, with both hands, the thought that was pushing forward towards her thinking. When thetram stopped at its journey's end she did not alight, but paid for, and made, the return journey, and found her feet again in theBoulevard St. Michel. 

Of course, she had read her Trilby, and other works dealing with theLatin Quarter. She knew that in that quarter everyone is notrespectable, but everyone is kind. It seemed good to her to go to acafé, to sit at a marble topped table, and drink--not the strangeliqueurs which men drink in books, but homely hot milk, such as someof the other girls there had before them. It would be perfectlysimple, as well as interesting, to watch the faces of the students, boys and girls, and when she found a nice girl-face, to speak to it, asking for the address of a respectable hotel. 

So she walked up the wide, tree-planted street feeling very Parisianindeed, as she called it the "Boule Miche" to herself. And she stoppedat the first Café she came to, which happened to be the Caféd'Harcourt. 

She did not see its name, and if she had it would naturally not haveconveyed any idea to her. The hour was not yet ten, and the Caféd'Harcourt was very quiet. There were not a dozen people at the littletables. Most of them were women. It would be easy to ask her littlequestions, with so few people to stare and wonder if she addressed astranger. 

She sat down, and ordered her hot milk and, with a flutter, awaitedit. This was life. And to-morrow she must telegraph to herstep-father, and everything would end in the old round of parishduties; all her hopes and dreams would be submerged in the heavymorass of meeting mothers. The thought leapt up. --Betty hid her eyesand would not look at it. Instead, she looked at the other peopleseated at the tables--the women. They were laughing and talking amongthemselves. One or two looked at Betty and smiled with frankfriendliness. Betty smiled back, but with embarrassment. She had heardthat French ladies of rank and fashion would as soon go out withouttheir stockings as without their paint, but she had not supposed thatthe practice extended to art students. And all these ladies wereboldly painted--no mere soupçon of carmine and pearl powder, but goodsolid masterpieces in body colour, black, white and red. She smiled inanswer to their obvious friendliness, but she did not ask them foraddresses. A handsome black-browed scowling woman sitting alonefrowned at her. She felt quite hurt. Why should anyone want to beunkind?

Men selling flowers, toy rabbits, rattling cardboard balls, offeredtheir wares up and down the row of tables. Betty bought a bunch offading late roses and thought, with a sudden sentimentality thatshocked her, of the monthly rose below the window at home. It alwaysbloomed well up to Christmas. Well, in two days she would see thatrose-bush. 

The trams rattled down the Boulevard, carriages rolled by. Every nowand then one of these would stop, and a couple would alight. Andpeople came on foot. The café was filling up. But still none of thewomen seemed to Betty exactly the right sort of person to know exactlythe right sort of hotel. 

Of course she knew from books that Hotels keep open all night, --butshe did not happen to have read any book which told of the reluctanceof respectable hotels to receive young women without luggage, late inthe evening. So it seemed to her that there was plenty of time. 

A blonde girl with jet black brows and eyes like big black beads wasleaning her elbows on her table and talking to her companions, twotourist-looking Germans in loud checks. They kept glancing at Betty, and it made her nervous to know that they were talking about her. Atlast her eyes met the eyes of the girl, who smiled at her and made alittle gesture of invitation to her, to come and sit at their table. Betty out of sheer embarrassment might have gone, but just at thatmoment the handsome scowling woman rose, rustled quickly to Betty, knocking over a chair in her passage, held out a hand, and said inexcellent English:

"How do you do?"

Betty gave her hand, but "I don't remember you, " said she. 

"May I join you?" said the woman sitting down. She wore black andwhite and red, and she was frightfully smart, Betty thought. Sheglanced at the others--the tourists and the blonde; they were nolonger looking at her. 

"Look here, " said the woman, speaking low, "I don't know you fromAdam, of course, but I know you're a decent girl. For God's sake gohome to your friends! I don't know what they're about to let you outalone like this. "

"I'm alone in Paris just now, " said Betty. 

"Good God in Heaven, you little fool! Get back to your lodging. You'veno business here. "

"I've as much business as anyone else, " said Betty. "I'm an artist, too, and I want to see life. "

"You've not seen much yet, " said the woman with a, laugh that Bettyhated to hear. "Have you been brought up in a convent? You an artist!Look at all of us! Do you need to be told what _our_ trade is?"

"Don't, " said Betty; "oh, don't. "

"Go home, " said the woman, "and say your prayers--I suppose you _do_say your prayers?--and thank God that it isn't your trade too. "

"I don't know what you mean, " said Betty. 

"Well then, go home and read your Bible. That'll tell you the sort ofwoman it is that stands about the corners of streets, or sits at theCafé d'Harcourt. What are your people about?"

"My father's in England, " said Betty; "he's a clergyman. "

"I generally say mine was, " said the other, "but I won't to you, because you'd believe me. My father was church organist, though. Andthe Vicarage people were rather fond of me. I used to do a lot ofParish work. " She laughed again. 

Betty laid a hand on the other woman's. 

"Couldn't you go home to your father--or--something?" she askedfeebly. 

"He's cursed me forever--Put it all down in black and white--a regularcommination service. It's you that have got to go home, and do it_now_, too. " She shook off Betty's hand and waved her own to a man whowas passing. 

"Here, Mr. Temple--"

The man halted, hesitated and came up to them. 

"Look here, " said the black-browed woman, "look what a pretty flowerI've found, --and here of all places!"

She indicated Betty by a look. The man looked too, and took the thirdchair at their table. Betty wished that the ground might open andcover her, but the Boule Miche asphalt is solid. The new-comer wastall and broad-shouldered, with a handsome, serious, boyish face, andfair hair. 

"She won't listen to me--"

"Oh, I did!" Betty put in reproachfully. 

"You talk to her like a father. Tell her where naughty little girls gowho stay out late at the Café d'Harcourt--fire and brimstone, youknow. She'll understand, she's a clergyman's daughter. "

"I really do think you'd better go home, " said the new-comer to Bettywith gentle politeness. 

"I would, directly, " said Betty, almost in tears, "but--the fact is Ihaven't settled on a hotel, and I came to this café. I thought I couldask one of these art students to tell me a good hotel, but--so that'show it is. "

"I should think not, " Temple answered the hiatus. Then he looked atthe black-browed, scowling woman, and his look was very kind. 

"Nini and her German swine were beginning to be amiable, " said thewoman in an aside which Betty did not hear. "For Christ's sake takethe child away, and put her safely for the night somewhere, if youhave to ring up a Mother Superior or a Governesses' Aid Society. "

"Right. I will. " He turned to Betty. 

"Will you allow me, " he said, "to find a carriage for you, and see youto a hotel?"

"Thank you, " said Betty. 

He went out to the curbstone and scanned the road for a passingcarriage. 

"Look here, " said the black-browed woman, turning suddenly on Betty;"I daresay you'll think it's not my place to speak--oh, if you don'tthink so you will some day, when you're grown up, --but look here. I'mnot chaffing. It's deadly earnest. You be good. See? There's nothingelse that's any good really. "

"Yes, " said Betty, "I know. If you're not good you won't be happy. "

"There you go, " the other answered almost fiercely; "it's always theway. Everyone says it--copybooks and Bible and everything--and no onebelieves it till they've tried the other way, and then it's no usebelieving anything. "

"Oh, yes, it is, " said Betty comfortingly, "and you're so kind. Idon't know how to thank you. Being kind _is_ being good too, isn'tit?"

"Well, you aren't always a devil, even if you are in hell. I wish Icould make you understand all the things I didn't understand when Iwas like you. But nobody can. That's part of the hell. And you don'teven understand half I'm saying. "

"I think I do, " said Betty. 

"Keep straight, " the other said earnestly; "never mind how dull it is. I used to think it must be dull in Heaven. God knows it's dull in theother place! Look, he's got a carriage. You can trust him just foronce, but as a rule I'd say 'Don't you trust any of them--they're allof a piece. ' Good-bye; you're a nice little thing. "

"Good-bye, " said Betty; "oh, good-bye! You _are_ kind, and good!People can't all be good the same way, " she added, vaguely and seekingto comfort. 

"Women can, " said the other, "don't you make any mistake. Good-bye. "

She watched the carriage drive away, and turned to meet the spitefulchaff of Nini and her German friends. 

"Now, " said Mr. Temple, as soon as the wheels began to revolve, "perhaps you will tell me how you come to be out in Paris alone atthis hour. "

Betty stared at him coldly. 

"I shall be greatly obliged if you can recommend me a good hotel, " shesaid. 

"I don't even know your name, " said he. 

"No, " she answered briefly. 

"I cannot advise you unless you will trust me a little, " he saidgently. 

"You are very kind, --but I have not yet asked for anyone's advice. "

"I am sorry if I have offended you, " he said, "but I only wish to beof service to you. "

[Illustration: "She stared at him coldly"]

"Thank you very much, " said Betty: "the only service I want is thename of a good hotel. "

"You are unwise to refuse my help, " he said. "The place where I foundyou shews that you are not to be trusted about alone. "

"Look here, " said Betty, speaking very fast, "I dare say you meanwell, but it isn't your business. The lady I was speaking to--"

"That just shews, " he said. 

"She was very kind, and I like her. But I don't intend to beinterfered with by any strangers, however well they mean. "

He laughed for the first time, and she liked him better when she hadheard the note of his laughter. 

"Please forgive me, " he said. "You are quite right. Miss Conway isvery kind. And I really do want to help you, and I don't want to beimpertinent. May I speak plainly?"

"Of course. "

"Well the Café d'Harcourt is not a place for a respectable girl to goto. "

"I gathered that, " she answered quietly. "I won't go there again. "

"Have you quarreled with your friends?" he persisted; "have you runaway?"

"No, " said Betty, and on a sudden inspiration, added: "I'm very, verytired. You can ask me any questions you like in the morning. Now: willyou please tell the man where to go?"

The dismissal was unanswerable. 

He took out his card-case and scribbled on a card. 

"Where is your luggage?" he asked. 

"Not here, " she said briefly. 

"I thought not, " he smiled again. "I am discerning, am I not? Well, perhaps you didn't know that respectable hotels prefer travellers whohave luggage. But they know me at this place. I have said you are mycousin, " he added apologetically. 

He stopped the carriage. "Hôtel de l'Unicorne, " he told the driver andstood bareheaded till she was out of sight. 

The Thought came out and said: "There will be an end of Me if you seethat well-meaning person again. " Betty would not face the Thought, butshe was roused to protect it. 

She stood up and touched the coachman on the arm. 

"Go back to the Cafe d'Harcourt, " she said. "I have forgottensomething. "

That was why, when Temple called, very early, at the Hôtel del'Unicorne he heard that his cousin had not arrived there the nightbefore--Had not, indeed, arrived at all. 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

"It's a pity, " he said. "Certainly she had run away from home. Isuppose I frightened her. I was always a clumsy brute with women. "

CHAPTER XI. 

THE THOUGHT. 

The dark-haired woman was still ably answering the chaff of Nini andthe Germans. And her face was not the face she had shewn to Betty. Betty came quietly behind her and touched her shoulder. She leapt inher chair and turned white under the rouge. 

"What the devil!--You shouldn't do that!" she said roughly; "Youfrightened me out of my wits. "

"I'm so sorry, " said Betty, who was pale too. "Come away, won't you? Iwant to talk to you. "

"Your little friend is charming, " said one of the men in thickGerman-French. "May I order for her a bock or a cerises?"

"Do come, " she urged. 

"Let's walk, " she said. "What's the matter? Where's young Temple?Don't tell me he's like all the others. "

"He meant to be kind, " said Betty, "but he asked a lot of questions, and I don't want to know him. I like you better. Isn't there anywherewe can be quiet, and talk? I'm all alone here in Paris, and I do wanthelp. And I'd rather you'd help me than anyone else. Can't I come homewith you?"

"No you can't. "

"Well then, will you come with me?--not to the hotel he told me of, but to some other--you must know of one. "

"What will you do if I don't?"

"I don't know, " said Betty very forlornly, "but you _will_, won't you. You don't know how tired I am. Come with me, and then in the morningwe can talk. Do--do. "

The other woman took some thirty or forty steps in silence. Then sheasked abruptly:

"Have you plenty of money?"

"Yes, lots. "

"And you're an artist?"

"Yes--at least I'm a student. "

Again the woman reflected. At last she shrugged her shoulders andlaughed. "Set a thief to catch a thief, " she said. "I shall make adragon of a chaperon, I warn you. Yes, I'll come, just for this onenight, but you'll have to pay the hotel bill. "

"Of course, " said Betty. 

"This _is_ an adventure! Where's your luggage?"

"It's at the station, but I want you to promise not to tell thatTemple man a word about me. I don't want to see him again. Promise. "

"Queer child. But I'll promise. Now look here: if I go into a thing atall I go into it heart and soul; so let's do the thing properly. Wemust have some luggage. I've got an old portmanteau knocking about. Will you wait for me somewhere while I get it?"

"I'd rather not, " said Betty, remembering the Germans and Nini. 

"Well then, --there'd be no harm for a few minutes. You can come withme. This is really rather a lark!"

Five minutes' walking brought the two to a dark house. The woman ranga bell; a latch clicked and a big door swung open. She grasped Betty'shand. 

"Don't say a word, " she said, and pulled her through. 

It was very dark. 

The other woman called out a name as they passed the door of theconcierge, a name that was not Conway, and her hand pulled Betty upflight after flight of steep stairs. On the fifth floor she opened adoor with a key, and left Betty standing at the threshold till she hadlighted a lamp. 

Then "Come in, " she said, and shut the door and bolted it. 

The room was small and smelt of white rose scent; the looking-glasshad a lace drapery fastened up with crushed red roses; and there werevoluminous lace and stuff curtains to bed and window. 

"Sit down, " said the hostess. She took off her hat and pulled thescarlet flowers from it. She washed her face till it shewed no rougeand no powder, and the brown of lashes and brows was free from theblack water-paint. She raked under the bed with a faded sunshade tillshe found an old brown portmanteau. Her smart black and white dresswas changed for a black one, of a mode passée these three years. Agray chequered golf cape and the dulled hat completed thetransformation. 

"How nice you look, " said Betty. 

The other bundled some linen and brushes into the portmanteau. 

"The poor old Gladstone's very thin still, " she said, and foldedskirts; "we must plump it out somehow. "

When the portmanteau was filled and strapped, they carried it downbetween them, in the dark, and got it out on to the pavement. 

"I am Miss Conway now, " said the woman, "and we will drive to theHotel de Lille. I went there one Easter with my father. "

With the change in her dress a change had come over Miss Conway'svoice. 

At the Hotel de Lille it was she who ordered the two rooms, communicating, for herself and her cousin, explained where the rest ofthe luggage was, and gave orders for the morning chocolate. 

"This is very jolly, " said Betty, when they were alone. "It's like anelopement. "

"Exactly, " said Miss Conway. "Good night. "

"It's rather like a dream, though. I shan't wake up and find you gone, shall I?" Betty asked anxiously. 

"No, no. We've all your affairs to settle in the morning. "

"And yours?"

"Mine were settled long ago. Oh, I forgot--I'm Miss Conway, at theHotel de Lille. Yes, we'll settle my affairs in the morning, too. Goodnight, little girl. "

"Good night, Miss Conway. "

"They call me Lotty. "

"My name's Betty and--look here, I can't wait till the morning. " Bettyclasped her hands, and seemed to be holding her courage between them. "I've come to Paris to study art, and I want you to come and live withme. I know you'd like it, and I've got heaps of money--will you?"

She spoke quickly and softly, and her face was flushed and her eyesbright. 

There was a pause. 

"You silly little duffer--you silly dear little duffer. "

The other woman had turned away and was fingering the chains of anormolu candlestick on the mantelpiece. 

Betty put an arm over her shoulders. 

"Look here, " she said, "I'm not such a duffer as you think. I knowpeople do dreadful things--but they needn't go on doing them, needthey?"

"Yes, they need, " said the other; "that's just it. "

Her fingers were still twisting the bronze chains. 

"And the women you talked about--in the Bible--they weren't kind andgood, like you; they were just only horrid and not anything else. Youtold _me_ to be good. Won't you let me help you? Oh, it does seem suchcheek of me, but I never knew anyone before who--I don't know how tosay it. But I am so sorry, and I want you to be good, just as much asyou want me to. Dear, dear Lotty!"

"My name's Paula. "

"Paula dear, I wish I wasn't so stupid, but I know it's not yourfault, and I know you aren't like that woman with the Germans. "

"I should hope not indeed, " Paula was roused to flash back; "dirtylittle French gutter-cat. "

"I've never been a bit of good to anyone, " said Betty, adding herother arm and making a necklace of the two round Paula's neck, "exceptto Parishioners perhaps. Do let me be a bit of good to you. Don't youthink I could?"

"You dear little fool!" said Paula gruffly. 

"Yes, but say yes--you must! I know you want to. I've got lots ofmoney. Kiss me, Paula. "

"I won't!--Don't kiss me!--I won't have it! Go away, " said the woman, clinging to Betty and returning her kisses. 

"Don't cry, " said Betty gently. "We shall be ever so happy. You'llsee. Good night, Paula. Do you know I've never had a friend--agirl-friend, I mean?"

"For God's sake hold your tongue, and go to bed! Good night. "

Betty, alone, faced at last, and for the first time, The Thought. Butit had changed its dress when Miss Conway changed hers. It was nolonger a Thought: it was a Resolution. 

Twin-born with her plan for saving her new friend was the plan for alife that should not be life at Long Barton. 

All the evening she had refused to face The Thought. But it had beenshaping itself to something more definite than thought. As aResolution, a Plan, it now unrolled itself before her. She sat in thestiff arm-chair looking straight in front of her, and she saw what shemeant to do. The Thought had been wise not to insist too much onrecognition. Earlier in the evening it would have seemed merely aselfish temptation. Now it was an opportunity for a good and nobleact. And Betty had always wanted so much to be noble and good. 

Here she was in Paris, alone. Her aunt, train-borne, was every momentfurther and further away. As for her step-father:

"I hate him, " said Betty, "and he hates me. He only let me come to getrid of me. And what good could I do at Long Barton compared with whatI can do here? Any one can do Parish work. I've got the money Auntleft for Madame Gautier. Perhaps it's stealing. But is it? The moneywas meant to pay to keep me in Paris to study Art. And it's not as ifI were staying altogether for selfish reasons--there's Paula. I'm sureshe has really a noble nature. And it's not as if I were stayingbecause He is in Paris. Of course, that would be _really wrong_. Buthe said he was going to Vienna. I suppose his uncle delayed him, buthe'll certainly go. I'm sure it's right. I've learned a lot since Ileft home. I'm not a child now. I'm a woman, and I must do what Ithink is right. You know I must, mustn't I?"

She appealed to the Inward Monitor, but it refused to be propitiated. 

"It only seems not quite right because it's so unusual, " she went on;"that's because I've never been anywhere or done anything. After all, it's my own life, and I have a right to live it as I like. Mystep-father has never written to Madame Gautier all these months. Hewon't now. It's only to tell him she has changed her address--he onlywrites to me on Sunday nights. There's just time. And I'll keep themoney, and when Aunt comes back I'll tell her everything. She'llunderstand. "

"Do you think so?" said the Inward Monitor. 

"Any way, " said Betty, putting her foot down on the Inward Monitor, "I'm going to do it. If it's only for Paula's sake. We'll take rooms, and I'll go to a Studio, and work hard; and I won't make friends withgentlemen I don't know, or anything silly, so there, " she addeddefiantly. "Auntie left the money for me to study in Paris. If I tellmy step-father that Madame Gautier is dead, he'll just fetch me home, and what'll become of Paula then?"

Thus and thus, ringing the changes on resolve and explanation, herthoughts ran. A clock chimed midnight. 

"Is it possible, " she asked herself, "that it's not twelve hours sinceI was at the Hotel Bête--talking to Him? Well, I shall never see himagain, I suppose. How odd that I don't feel as if I cared whether Idid or not. I suppose what I felt about him wasn't real. It all seemsso silly now. Paula is real, and all that I mean to do for her isreal. He isn't. "

She prayed that night as usual, but her mind was made up, and sheprayed outside a closed door. 

Next morning, when her chocolate came up, she carried it into the nextroom, and, sitting on the edge of her new friend's bed, breakfastedthere. 

Paula seemed dazed when she first woke, but soon she was smiling andlistening to Betty's plans. 

"How young you look, " said Betty, "almost as young as me. "

"I'm twenty-five. "

"You don't look it--with your hair in those pretty plaits, and yournightie. You do have lovely nightgowns. "

"I'll get up now, " said Paula. "Look out--I nearly upset the tray. "

Betty had carefully put away certain facts and labelled them: "Not tobe told to anyone, even Paula. " No one was to know anything aboutVernon. "There is nothing to know really, " she told herself. No onewas to know that she was alone in Paris without the knowledge of herrelations. Lots of girls came to Paris alone to study art. She wasjust one of these. 

She found the lying wonderfully easy. It did not bring with it, either, any of the shame that lying should bring, but rather a senseof triumphant achievement, as from a difficult part playedexcellently. 

She paid the hotel bill, and then the search for rooms began. 

"We must be very economical, you know, " she said, "but you won't mindthat, will you? I think it will be rather fun. "

"It would be awful fun, " said the other. "You'll go and work at thestudio, and when you come home after your work I shall have cooked thedéjeûner, and we shall have it together on a little table with a nicewhite cloth and a bunch of flowers on it. "

"Yes; and in the evening we'll go out, to concerts and things, andride on the tops of trams. And on Sundays--what does one do onSundays?"

"I suppose one goes to church, " said Paula. 

"Oh, I think not when we're working so hard all the week. We'll gointo the country. "

"We can take the river steamer and go to St. Cloud, or go out on thetram to Clamart--the woods there are just exactly like the woods athome. What part of England do you live in?"

"Kent, " said Betty. 

"My home's in Devonshire, " said Paula. 

It was a hard day: so many stairs to climb, so many apartments to see!And all of them either quite beyond Betty's means, or else littlestuffy places, filled to choking point with the kind of furniture noone could bear to live with, and with no light, and no outlook excepta blank wall a yard or two from the window. 

They kept to the Montparnasse quarter, for there, Paula said, were thebest ateliers for Betty. They found a little restaurant, where onlyart students ate, and where one could breakfast royally for about ashilling. Betty looked with interest at the faces of the students, andwondered whether she should ever know any of them. Some of them lookedinteresting. A few were English, and fully half American. 

Then the weary hunt for rooms began again. 

It was five o'clock before a _concierge, unexpected amiable_ in faceof their refusal of her rooms, asked whether they had tried MadameBianchi's--Madame Bianchi where the atelier was, and the students'meetings on Sunday evenings, --Number 57 Boulevard Montparnasse. 

They tried it. One passes through an archway into a yard where themachinery, of a great laundry pulses half the week, up some widewooden stairs--shallow, easy stairs--and on the first floor are thetwo rooms. Betty drew a long breath when she saw them. They werelofty, they were airy, they were light. There was not much furniture, but what there was was good--old carved armoires, solid divansand--joy of joys--in each room a carved oak, Seventeenth Centurymantelpiece eight feet high and four feet deep. 

"I _must_ have these rooms!" Betty whispered. "Oh, I could make themso pretty!"

The rent of the rooms was almost twice as much as the sum they fixedon, and Paula murmured caution. 

"Its no use, " said Betty. "We'll live on bread and water if you like, but we'll live on it _here_. "

And she took the rooms. 

"I'm sure we've done right, " she said as they drove off to fetch herboxes: "the rooms will be like a home, you see if they aren't. Andthere's a piano too. And Madame Bianchi, isn't she a darling; Isn'tshe pretty and sweet and nice?"

"Yes, " said Paula thoughtfully; "it certainly is something that you'vegot rooms in the house of a woman like that. "

"And that ducky little kitchen! Oh, we shall have such fun, cookingour own meals! You shall get the déjeûner but I'll cook the dinnerwhile you lie on the sofa and read novels 'like a real lady. '"

"Don't use that expression--I hate it, " said Paula sharply. "But therooms are lovely, aren't they?"

"Yes, it's a good place for you to be in--I'm sure of that, " said theother, musing again. 

When the boxes were unpacked, and Betty had pinned up a few prints andphotographs and sketches and arranged some bright coloured Libertyscarves to cover the walls' more obvious defects--left by the removalof the last tenant's decorations--when flowers were on table andpiano, the curtains drawn and the lamps lighted, the room did, indeed, look "like a home. "

"We'll have dinner out to-night, " said Paula, "and to-morrow we'll gomarketing, and find you a studio to work at. "

"Why not here?"

"That's an idea. Have you a lace collar you can lend me? This is notfit to be seen. "

Betty pinned the collar on her friend. 

"I believe you get prettier every minute, " she said. "I must justwrite home and give them my address. "

She fetched her embroidered blotting-book. 

"It reminds one of bazaars, " said Miss Conway. 

 * * * * *

 57 Boulevard Montparnasse. 

 My dear Father:

 This is our new address. Madame Gautier's tenant wanted to keep on her flat in the Rue de Vaugirard, so she has taken this one which is larger and very convenient, as it is close to many of the best studios. I think I shall like it very much. It is not decided yet where I am to study, but there is an Atelier in the House for ladies only, and I think it will be there, so that I shall not have to go out to my lessons. I will write again as soon as we are more settled. We only moved in late this afternoon, so there is a lot to do. I hope you are quite well, and that everything is going on well in the Parish. I will certainly send some sketches for the Christmas sale. Madame Gautier does not wish me to go home for Christmas; she thinks it would interrupt my work too much. There is a new girl, a Miss Conway. I like her very much. With love, Yours affectionately, E. Desmond. 

She was glad when that letter was written. It is harder to lie inwriting than in speech, and the use of the dead woman's name made hershiver. 

"But I won't do things by halves, " she said. 

"What's this?" Paula asked sharply. She had stopped in front of one ofBetty's water colours. 

"That? Oh, I did it ages ago--before I learned anything. Don't lookat it. "

"But _what_ is it?"

"Oh, only our house at home. "

"I wonder, " said Paula, "why all English Vicarages are exactly alike. "

"It's a Rectory, " said Betty absently. 

"That ought to make a difference, but it doesn't. I haven't seen anEnglish garden for four years. "

"Four years is a long time, " said Betty. 

"You don't know how long, " said the other. "And the garden's beengoing on just the same all the time. It seems odd, doesn't it? Thosehollyhocks--the ones at the Vicarage at home are just like them. Come, let's go to dinner!"

CHAPTER XII. 

THE RESCUE. 

When Vernon had read Betty's letter--and holding it up to the light hewas able to read the scratched-out words almost as easily as theothers--he decided that he might as well know where she worked, andone day, after he had called on Lady St. Craye, he found himselfwalking along the Rue de Vaugirard. Lady St. Craye was charming. Andshe had been quite right when she had said that he would find aspecial charm in the companionship of one in whose heart his pastlove-making seemed to have planted no thorns. Yet her charm, by itsvery nature--its finished elegance, its conscious authority--made himthink with the more interest of the unformed, immature grace of theother woman--Betty, in whose heart he had not had the chance to planteither thorns or roses. 

How could he find out? Concierges are venal, but Vernon disliked baseinstruments. He would act boldly. It was always the best way. He wouldask to see this Madame Gautier--if Betty were present he must take hischance. It would be interesting to see whether she would commitherself to his plot by not recognizing him. If she did that--Yet hehoped she wouldn't. If she did recognize him he would say that it wasthrough Miss Desmond's relatives that he had heard of Madame Gautier. Betty could not contradict him. He would invent a niece whose parentswished to place her with Madame. Then he could ask as many questionsas he liked, about hours and studios, and all the details of the lifeBetty led. 

It was a simple straight-forward design, and one that carried successin its pocket. No one could suspect anything. 

Yet at the very first step suspicion, or what looked like it, staredat him from the eyes of the concierge when he asked for MadameGautier. 

"Monsieur is not of the friends of Madame?" she asked curiously. 

He knew better than to resent the curiosity. He explained that hedesired to see Madame on business. 

"You will see her never, " the woman said dramatically; "she sees noone any more. "

"Is it that she is ill?"

"It is that she is dead, --and the dead do not receive, Monsieur. " Shelaughed, and told the tale of death circumstantially, with grim relishof detail. 

"And the young ladies--they have returned to their parents?"

"Ah, it is in the young ladies that Monsieur interests himself? Butyes. Madame's brother, who is in the Commerce of Nantes, he restoredinstantly the young ladies to their friends. One was already with heraunt. "

Vernon had money ready in his hand. 

"What was her name, Madame--the young lady with the aunt?"

"But I know not, Monsieur. She was a new young lady, who had been withMadame at her Villa--I have not seen her. At the time of theregrettable accident she was with her aunt, and doubtless remainsthere. Thank you, Monsieur. That is all I know. "

"Thank you, Madame. I am desolated to have disturbed you. Good day. "

And Vernon was in the street again. 

So Betty had never come to the Rue Vaugirard! The aunt must somehowhave heard the news--perhaps she had called on the way to thetrain--she had returned to the Bête and Betty now was Heaven aloneknew where. Perhaps at Long Barton. Perhaps in Paris, with some otherdragon. 

Vernon for a day or two made a point of being near when thestudios--Julien's, Carlorossi's, Delacluse's, disgorged theirstudents. He did not see Betty, because she was not studying at any ofthese places, but at the Atelier Bianchi, of which he never thought. So he shrugged his shoulders, and dined again with Lady St. Craye, andbegan to have leisure to analyse the emotions with which she inspiredhim. He had not believed that he could be so attracted by a woman withwhom he had played the entire comedy, from first glance to lasttear--from meeting hands to severed hearts. Yet attracted he was, andstrongly. He experienced a sort of resentment, a feeling that she hadkept something from him, that she had reserves of which he knewnothing, that he, who in his blind complacency had imagined himself tohave sucked the orange and thrown away the skin, had really, in pointof fact, had a strange lovely fruit snatched from him before his bluntteeth had done more than nibble at its seemingly commonplace rind. 

In the old days she had reared barriers of reserve, walls of reticenceover which he could see so easily; now she posed as having noreserves, and he seemed to himself to be following her through adarkling wood, where the branches flew back and hit him in the face sothat he could not see the path. 

"You know, " she said, "what makes it so delightful to talk to you isthat I can say exactly what I like. You won't expect me to be clever, or shy, or any of those tiresome things. We can be perfectly frankwith each other. And that's such a relief, isn't it?"

"I wonder whether it would be--supposing it could be?" said he. 

They were driving in the Bois, among the autumn tinted trees where thepale mist wreaths wandered like ghosts in the late afternoon. 

"Of course it could be; it is, " she said, opening her eyes at himunder the brim of her marvel of a hat: "at least it is for simple folklike me. Why don't you wear a window in your breast as I do?"

She laid her perfectly gloved hand on her sables. 

"Is there really a window? Can one see into your heart?"

"_One_ can--not the rest. Just the one from whom one feareth nothing, expecteth nothing, hopeth nothing. That's out of the Bible, isn't it?"

"It's near enough, " said he. "Of course, to you it's a new sensationto have the window in your breast. Whereas I, from innocent childhoodto earnest manhood, have ever been open as the day. "

"Yes, " she said, "you were always transparent enough. But one is soblind when one is in love. "

Her calm references to the past always piqued him. 

"I don't think Love is so blind as he's painted, " he said: "always assoon as I begin to be in love with people I begin to see theirfaults. "

"You may be transparent, but you haven't a good mirror, " she laughed;"you don't see yourself as you are. It isn't when you begin to lovepeople that you see their faults, is it? It's really when they beginto love you. "

"But I never begin to love people till they begin to love me. I'm toomodest. "

"And I never love people after they've done loving me. I'm too--"

"Too what?"

"Too something--forgetful, is it? I mean it takes two to make aquarrel, and it certainly takes two to make a love affair. "

"And what about all the broken hearts?"

"What broken hearts?"

"The ones you find in the poets and the story books. "

"That's just where you do find them. Nowhere else. --Now, honestly, hasyour heart ever been broken?"

"Not yet: so be careful how you play with it. You don't often findsuch a perfect specimen--absolutely not a crack or a chip. "

"The pitcher shouldn't crow too loud--can pitchers crow? They haveears, of course, but only the little pitchers. The ones that go to thewell should go in modest silence. "

"Dear Lady, " he said almost impatiently, "what is there about me thatdrives my friends to stick up danger boards all along my path? 'Thisway to Destruction!' You all label them. I am always being solemnlywarned that I shall get my heart broken one of these days, if I don'tlook out. "

"I wish you wouldn't call me dear Lady, " she said; "it's not the modeany more now. "

"What may I call you?" he had to ask, turning to look in her eyes. 

"You needn't call me anything. I hate being called names. That's apretty girl--not the dark one, the one with the fur hat. "

He turned to look. 

Two girls were walking briskly under the falling leaves. And the onewith the fur hat was Betty. But it was at the other that he gazed evenas he returned Betty's prim little bow. He even turned a little as thecarriage passed, to look more intently at the tall figure in shabbyblack whose arm Betty held. 

"Well?" said Lady St. Craye, breaking the silence that followed. 

"Well?" said he, rousing himself, but too late. "You were saying Imight call you--"

"It's not what I was saying--it's what you were looking. Who is thegirl, and why don't you approve of her companion?"

"Who says I don't wear a window in my breast?" he laughed. "The girl'sa little country girl I knew in England--I didn't know she was inParis. And I thought I knew the woman, too, but that's impossible:it's only a likeness. "

"One nice thing about me is that I never ask impertinent questions--orhardly ever. That one slipped out and I withdraw it. I don't want toknow anything about anything and I'm sorry I spoke. I see, of course, that she is a little country girl you knew in England, and that youare not at all interested in her. How fast the leaves fall now, don'tthey?"

"No question of your's could be im--could be anything but flattering. But since you _are_ interested--"

"Not at all, " she said politely. 

"Oh, but do be interested, " he urged, intent on checking herinconvenient interest, "because, really, it is rather interesting whenyou come to think of it. I was painting my big picture--I wish you'dcome and see it, by the way. Will you some day, and have tea in mystudio?"

"I should love it. When shall I come?"

"Whenever you will. "

He wished she would ask another question about Betty, but shewouldn't. He had to go on, a little awkwardly. 

"Well, I only knew them for a week--her and her aunt and herfather--and she's a nice, quiet little thing. The father's aparson--all of them are all that there is of most respectable. "

She listened but she did not speak. 

"And I was rather surprised to see her here. And for the moment Ithought the woman with her was--well, the last kind of woman whocould have been with her, don't you know. "

"I see, " said Lady St. Craye. "Well, it's fortunate that the darkwoman isn't that kind of woman. No doubt you'll be seeing your littlefriend. You might ask her to tea when I come to see your picture. "

"I wish I could. " Vernon's manner was never so frank as when he wasmost on his guard. "She'd love to know you. I wish I could ask them totea, but I don't know them well enough. And their address I don't knowat all. It's a pity; she's a nice little thing. "

It was beautifully done. Lady St. Craye inwardly applauded Vernon'sacting, and none the less that her own part had grown strangelydifficult. She was suddenly conscious of a longing to be alone--to lether face go. She gave herself a moment's pause, caught at her finecourage and said:

"Yes, it is a pity. However, I daresay it's safer for her that youcan't ask her to tea. She _is_ a nice little thing, and she might fallin love with you, and then, your modesty appeased, you might followsuit! Isn't it annoying when one can't pick up the thread of aconversation? All the time you've been talking I've been wonderingwhat we were talking about before I pointed out the fur hat to you. And I nearly remember, and I can't quite. That is always so worrying, isn't it?"

Her acting was as good as his. And his perception at the moment lessclear than hers. 

He gave a breath of relief. It would never have done to have Lady St. Craye spying on him and Betty; and now he knew that she was in Parishe knew too that it would be "him and Betty. "

"We were talking, " he said carefully, "about calling names. "

"Oh, thank you!--When one can't remember those silly little thingsit's like wanting to sneeze and not being able to, isn't it? But wemust turn back, or I shall be late for dinner, and I daren't think ofthe names my hostess will call me then. She has a vocabulary, youknow. " She named a name and Vernon thought it was he who kept the talkbusy among acquaintances till the moment for parting. Lady St. Crayeknew that it was she. 

The moment Betty had bowed to Mr. Vernon she turned her head in answerto the pressure on her arm. 

"Who's that?" her friend asked. 

Betty named him, and in a voice genuinely unconcerned. 

"How long have you known him?"

"I knew him for a week last Spring: he gave me a few lessons. He is agreat favourite of my aunt's, but we don't know him much. And Ithought he was in Vienna. "

"Does he know where you are?"

"No. "

"Then mind he doesn't. "

"Why?"

"Because when girls are living alone they can't be too careful. Remember you're the person that's responsible for Betty Desmond now. You haven't your aunt and your father to take care of you. "

"I've got you, " said Betty affectionately. 

"Yes, you've got me, " said her friend. 

Life in the new rooms was going very easily and pleasantly. Betty hadcovered some cushions with the soft green silk of an old evening dressAunt Julia had given her; she had bought chrysanthemums in pots; andnow all her little belongings, the same that had "given the _cachet_"to her boudoir bedroom at home lay about, and here, in this foreignsetting, did really stamp the room with a pretty, delicate, conventional individuality. The embroidered blotting-book, the silverpen-tray, the wicker work-basket lined with blue satin, the longworked pin-cushion stuck with Betty's sparkling hat-pins, --all these, commonplace at Long Barton were here not commonplace. There wasnothing of Paula's lying about. She had brought nothing with her, andhad fetched nothing from her room save clothes--dresses and hats ofthe plainest. 

The experiments in cooking were amusing; so were the marketings in oddlittle shops that sold what one wanted, and a great many things thatone had never heard of. The round of concerts and theatres andtram-rides had not begun yet. In the evenings Betty drew, while Paularead aloud--from the library of stray Tauchnitz books Betty hadgleaned from foreign book-stalls. It was a very busy, pleasanthome-life. And the studio life did not lack interest. 

Betty suffered a martyrdom of nervousness when first--a littlelate--she entered the Atelier. It is a large light room; asemi-circular alcove at one end, hung with pleasant-coloured drapery, holds a grand piano. All along one side are big windows that give onan old garden--once a convent garden where nuns used to walk, tellingtheir beads. The walls are covered with sketches, posters, studies. Betty looked nervously round--the scene was agitatingly unfamiliar. The strange faces, the girls in many-hued painting pinafores, thelittle forest of easels, and on the square wooden platform themodel--smooth, brown, with limbs set, moveless as a figure of wax. 

Betty got to work, as soon as she knew how one began to get to work. It was her first attempt at a drawing from the life, saving certainnot unsuccessful caricatures of her fellow pupils, her professor andher chaperon. So far she had only been set to do landscape, andlaborious drawings of casts from the antique. The work was much harderthan she had expected. And the heat was overpowering. She wondered howthese other girls could stand it. Their amused, half-patronising, half-disdainful glances made her furious. 

She rubbed out most of the lines she had put in and gasped for breath. 

The room, the students, the naked brown girl on the model's throne, all swam before her eyes. She got to the door somehow, opened and shutit, and found herself sitting on the top stair with closed eyelids andheart beating heavily. 

[Illustration: "Betty looked nervously around--the scene wasagitatingly unfamiliar"]

Some one held water to her lips. She was being fanned with ahandkerchief. 

"I'm all right, " she said. 

"Yes, it's hotter than usual to-day, " said the handkerchief-holder, fanning vigorously. 

"Why do they have it so hot?" asked poor Betty. 

"Because of the model, of course. Poor thing! she hasn't got a niceblue gown and a pinky-greeny pinafore to keep her warm. We have to tryto match the garden of Eden climate--when we're drawing from a girlwho's only allowed to use Eve's fashion plates. "

Betty laughed and opened her eyes. 

"How jolly of you to come out after me, " she said. 

"Oh, I was just the same at first. All right now? I ought to get back. You just sit here till you feel fit again. So long!"

So Betty sat there on the bare wide brown stair, staring at thewindow, till things had steadied themselves, and then she went back toher work. 

Her easel was there, and her half-rubbed out drawing--No, that was nother drawing. It was a head, vaguely but very competently sketched, alikeness--no, a caricature--of Betty herself. 

She looked round--one quick but quite sufficient look. The girl nexther, and the one to that girl's right, were exchanging glances, andthe exchange ceased just too late. Betty saw. 

From then till the rest Betty did not look at the model. She looked, but furtively, at those two girls. When, at the rest-time, the modelstretched and yawned and got off her throne and into a stripedpetticoat, most of the students took their "easy" on the stairs: amongthese the two. 

Betty, who never lacked courage, took charcoal in hand and advancedquite boldly to the easel next to her own. 

How she envied the quality of the drawing she saw there. But envy doesnot teach mercy. The little sketch that Betty left on the corner ofthe drawing was quite as faithful, and far more cruel, than the one onher own paper. Then she went on to the next easel. The few studentswho were chatting to the model looked curiously at her and giggledamong themselves. 

When the rest was over and the model had reassumed, quite easily andcertainly, that pose of the uplifted arms which looked so difficult, the students trooped back and the two girls--Betty's enemies, as shebitterly felt--returned to their easels. They looked at theirdrawings, they looked at each other, and they looked at Betty. Andwhen they looked at her they smiled. 

"Well done!" the girl next her said softly. "For a tenderfoot you hitback fairly straight. I guess you'll do!"

"You're very kind, " said Betty haughtily. 

"Don't you get your quills up, " said the girl. "I hit first, but youhit hardest. I don't know you, --but I want to. "

She smiled so queer yet friendly a smile that Betty's haughtiness hadto dissolve in an answering smile. 

"My name's Betty Desmond, " she said. "I wonder why you wanted to hit aman when he was down. "

"My!" said the girl, "how was I to surmise about you being down? Youlooked dandy enough--fit to lick all creation. "

"I've never been in a studio before, " said Betty, fixing fresh paper. 

"My!" said the girl again. "Turn the faucet off now. The model don'tlike us to whisper. Can't stand the draught. "

So Betty was silent, working busily. But next day she was greeted withfriendly nods and she had some one to speak to in the rest-intervals. 

On the third day she was asked to a studio party by the girl who hadfanned her on the stairs. "And bring your friend with you, " she said. 

But Betty's friend had a headache that day. Betty went alone and camehome full of the party. 

"She's got such a jolly studio, " she said; "ever so high up, --andbusts and casts and things. Everyone was so nice to me you can'tthink: it was just like what one hears of Girton Cocoa parties. We hadtea--such weak tea, Paula, it could hardly crawl out of the teapot! Wehad it out of green basins. And the loveliest cakes! There were onlytwo chairs, so some of us sat on the sommier and the rest on thefloor. "

"Were there any young men?" asked Paula. 

"Two or three very, very young ones--they came late. But they might aswell have been girls; there wasn't any flirting or nonsense of thatsort, Paula. Don't you think _we_ might give a party--not now, butpresently, when we know some more people? Do you think they'd like it?Or would they think it a bore?"

"They'd love it, I should think. " Paula looked round the room whichalready she loved. "And what did you all talk about?"

"Work, " said Betty, "work and work and work and work and work:everyone talked about their work, and everyone else listened andwatched for the chance to begin to talk about theirs. This is reallife, my dear. I am so glad I'm beginning to know people. Miss Voscoeis very queer, but she's a dear. She's the one who caricatured me thefirst day. Oh, we shall do now, shan't we?"

"Yes, " said the other, "you'll do now. "

"I said 'we, '" Betty corrected softly. 

"I meant we, of course, " said Miss Conway. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

CONTRASTS. 

Vernon's idea of a studio was a place to work in, a place where thereshould be room for all the tools of one's trade, and besides, a greatspace to walk up and down in those moods that seize on all artistswhen their work will not come as they want it. 

But when he gave tea-parties he had store of draperies to pull outfrom his carved cupboard, deeply coloured things embroidered in richsilk and heavy gold--Chinese, Burmese, Japanese, Russian. 

He came in to-day with an armful of fair chrysanthemums, deftly setthem in tall brazen jars, pulled out his draperies and arranged themswiftly. There was a screen to be hung with a Chinese mandarin'sdress, where, on black, gold dragons writhed squarely among blueroses; the couch was covered by a red burnous with a gold border. There were Persian praying mats to lay on the bare floor, kakemonos tobe fastened with drawing pins on the bare walls. A tea cloth worked byRussian peasants lay under the tea-cups--two only--of yellow Chineseegg-shell ware. His tea-pot and cream-jug were Queen Anne silver, heirlooms at which he mocked. But he saw to it that they were keptbright. 

He lighted the spirit-lamp. 

"She was always confoundedly punctual, " he said. 

But to-day Lady St. Craye was not punctual. She arrived half an hourlate, and the delay had given her host time to think about her. 

He heard her voice in the courtyard at last--but the only window thatlooked that way was set high in the wall of the little corridor, andhe could not see who it was to whom she was talking. And he wondered, because the inflection of her voice was English--not the exquisiteimitation of the French inflexion which he had so often admired inher. 

He opened the door and went to the stair head. The voices were comingup the steps. 

"A caller, " said Vernon, and added a word or two. However little youmay be in love with a woman, two is better company than three. 

The voices came up. He saw the golden brown shimmer of Lady St. Craye's hat, and knew that it matched her hair and that there would beviolets somewhere under the brim of it--violets that would make hereyes look violet too. She was coming up--a man just behind her. Shecame round the last turn, and the man was Temple. 

"What an Alpine ascent!" she exclaimed, reaching up her hand so thatVernon drew her up the last three steps. "We have been hunting youtogether, on both the other staircases. Now that the chase is ended, won't you present your friend? And I'll bow to him as soon as I'm onfirm ground!"

Vernon made the presentation and held the door open for Lady St. Crayeto pass. As she did so Temple behind her raised eyebrows which said:

"Am I inconvenient? Shall I borrow a book or something and go?"

Vernon shook his head. It was annoying, but inevitable. He could onlyhope that Lady St. Craye also was disappointed. 

"How punctual you are, " he said. "Sit here, won't you?--I hadn'tfinished laying the table. " He deliberately brought out four morecups. "What unnatural penetration you have, Temple! How did you findout that this is the day when I sit 'at home' and wait for people tocome and buy my pictures?"

"And no one's come?" Lady St. Craye had sunk into the chair and waspulling off her gloves. "That's very disappointing. I thought I shouldmeet dozens of clever and interesting people, and I only meet two. "

Her brilliant smile made the words seem neither banal nor impertinent. 

Vernon was pleased to note that he was not the only one who wasdisappointed. 

"You are too kind, " he said gravely. 

Temple was looking around the room. 

"Jolly place you've got here, " he said, "but it's hard to find. Ishould have gone off in despair if I hadn't met Lady St. Craye. "

"We kept each other's courage up, didn't we, Mr. Temple? It was likearctic explorers. I was beginning to think we should have to make acamp and cook my muff for tea. "

She held out the sable and Vernon laid it on the couch when he hadheld it to his face for a moment. 

"I love the touch of fur, " he said; "and your fur is scented with thescent of summer gardens, 'open jasmine muffled lattices, '" he quotedsoftly. Temple had wandered to the window. 

"What ripping roofs!" he said. "Can one get out on them?"

"Now what, " demanded Vernon, "_is_ the hidden mainspring that impelsevery man who comes into these rooms to ask, instantly, whether onecan get out on to the roof? It's only Englishmen, by the way;Americans never ask it, nor Frenchmen. "

"It's the exploring spirit, I suppose, " said Temple idly; "the spiritthat has made England the Empire which--et cetera. "

"On which the sun never sets. Yes--but I think the sunset would be oneof the attractions of your roof, Mr. Vernon. "

"Sunset is never attractive to me, " said he, "nor Autumn. Give mesunrise, and Spring. "

"Ah, yes, " said Lady St. Craye, "you only like beginnings. EvenSummer--"

"Even Summer, as you say, " he answered equably. "The sketch is alwaysso much better than the picture. "

"I believe that is your philosophy of life, " said Temple. 

"This man, " Vernon explained, "spends his days in doing rippingetchings and black and white stuff and looking for my philosophy oflife. "

"One would like to see that in black and white. Will you etch it forme, Mr. Temple, when you find it?"

"I don't think the medium would be adequate, " Temple said. "I haven'tfound it yet, but I should fancy it would be rather highly coloured. "

"Iridescent, perhaps. Did you ever speculate as to the colour ofpeople's souls? I'm quite sure every soul has a colour. "

"What is yours?" asked Vernon of course. 

"I'm too humble to tell you. But some souls are thick--body-colour, don't you know--and some are clear like jewels. "

"And mine's an opal, is it?"

"With more green in it, perhaps; you know the lovely colour on thedykes in the marshes?"

"Stagnant water? Thank you!"

"I don't know what it is. It has some hateful chemical name, Idaresay. They have vases the colour I mean, mounted in silver, at theArmy and Navy Stores. "

"And your soul--it is a pearl, isn't it?"

"Never! Nothing opaque. If you will force my modesty to the confessionI believe in my heart that it is a sapphire. True blue, don't youknow!"

"And Temple's--but you've not known him long enough to judge. "

"So it's no use my saying that I am sure his soul is a dewdrop. "

"To be dried up by the sun of life?" Temple questioned. 

"No--to be hardened into a diamond--by the fire of life. No, don'texplain that dewdrops don't harden Into diamonds. I know I'm notscientific, but I honestly did mean to be complimentary. Isn't yourkettle boiling over, Mr. Vernon?"

Lady St. Craye's eyes, while they delicately condoled with Vernon onthe spoiling of his tete-a-tete with her, were also made to indicate acertain interest in the spoiler. Temple was more than six feet high, well built. He had regular features and clear gray eyes, with well-cutcases and very long dark lashes. His mouth was firm and its lines weregood. But for his close-cropped hair and for a bearing at once frank, assured, and modest, he would have been much handsomer than a man hasany need to be. But his expression saved him: No one had ever calledhim a barber's block or a hairdresser's apprentice. 

To Temple Lady St. Craye appeared the most charming woman he had everseen. It was an effect which she had the habit of producing. He hadsaid of her in his haste that she was all clothes and no woman, now hesaw that on the contrary the clothes were quite intimately part of thewoman, and took such value as they had, from her. 

She carried her head with the dainty alertness of a beautiful bird. She had a gift denied to most Englishwomen--the genius for wearingclothes. No one had ever seen her dress dusty or crushed, her hatcrooked. No uncomfortable accidents ever happened to her. Blacks neversettled on her face, the buttons never came off her gloves, she neverlost her umbrella, and in the windiest weather no loose untidy wispsescaped from her thick heavy shining hair to wander unbecomingly roundthe ears that were pearly and pink like the little shells of Vanessae. Some of the women who hated her used to say that she dyed her hair. Itwas certainly very much lighter than her brows and lashes. To-day shewas wearing a corduroy dress of a gold some shades grayer than thegold of her hair. Sable trimmed it, and violet silk lined the loosesleeves and the coat, now unfastened and thrown back. There were, asVernon had known there would be, violets under the brim of the hatthat matched her hair. 

The chair in which she sat wore a Chinese blue drapery. The yellowtea-cups gave the highest note in the picture. 

"If I were Whistler, I should ask you to let me paint your portraitlike that--yes, with my despicable yellow tea-cup in your honourablehand. "

"If you were Mr. Whistler--or anything in the least like Mr. Whistler--I shouldn't be drinking tea out of your honourable tea-cup, "she said. "Do you really think, Mr. Temple, that one ought not to sayone doesn't like people just because they're dead?"

He had been thinking something a little like it. 

"Well, " he said rather awkwardly, "you see dead people can't hitback. "

"No more can live ones when you don't hit them, but only stick pins intheir effigies. I'd rather speak ill of the dead than the living. "

"Yet it doesn't seem fair, somehow, " Temple insisted. 

"But why? No one can go and tell the poor things what people aresaying of them. You don't go and unfold a shroud just to whisper in acorpse's ear: 'It was horrid of her to say it, but I thought you oughtto know, dear. '--And if you did, they wouldn't lie awake at nightworrying over it as the poor live people do. --No more tea, thank you. "

"Do you really think anyone worries about what anyone says?"

"Don't you, Mr. Temple?"

He reflected. 

"He never has anything to worry about, " Vernon put in; "no one eversays anything unkind about him. The cruelest thing anyone ever said ofhim was that he would make as excellent a husband as Albert the Good. "

"The white flower of a blameless life? My felicitations, " Lady St. Craye smiled them. 

Temple flushed. 

"Now isn't it odd, " Vernon asked, "that however much one plumesoneself on one's blamelessness, one hates to hear it attributed to oneby others? One is good by stealth and blushes to find it fame. Imyself--"

"Yes!" said Lady St. Craye with an accent of finality. 

"What a man really likes is to be saint with the reputation of being abit of a devil. "

"And a woman likes, you think, to be a bit of a devil, with thereputation of a saint?"

"Or a bit of a saint with a reputation that rhymes to the reality. It's the reputation that's important, isn't it?"

"Isn't the inward truth the really important thing?" said Templerather heavily. 

Lady St. Craye looked at him in such a way as to make him understandthat she understood. Vernon looked at them both, and turning to thewindow looked out on his admired roofs. 

"Yes, " she said very softly, "but one doesn't talk about that, anymore than one does of one's prayers or one's love affairs. "

The plural vexed Temple, and he told himself how unreasonable thevexation was. 

Lady St. Craye turned her charming head to look at him, to look atVernon. One had been in love with her. The other might be. There is inthe world no better company than this. 

Temple, always deeply uninterested in women's clothes, was noting thelong, firm folds of her skirt. Vernon had turned from the window toapprove the loving closeness of those violets against her hair. LadySt. Craye in her graceful attitude of conscious unconsciousness wasthe focus of their eyes. 

"Here comes a millionaire, to buy your pictures, " she saidsuddenly, --"no--a millionairess, by the sound of her high-heeledshoes. How beautiful are the feet--"

The men had heard nothing, but following hard on her words came thesound of footsteps along the little corridor, an agitated knock on thedoor. 

Vernon opened the door--to Betty. 

"Oh--come in, " he said cordially, and his pause of absoluteastonishment was brief as an eye-flash. "This is delightful--"

And as she passed into the room he caught her eyes and, looking awarning, said: "I am so glad to see you. I began to be afraid youwouldn't be able to come. "

"I saw you in the Bois the other day, " said Lady St. Craye, "and Ihave been wanting to know you ever since. "

"You are very kind, " said Betty. Her hat was on one side, her hair wasvery untidy, and it was not a becoming untidiness either. She had nogloves, and a bit of the velvet binding of her skirt was loose. Hereyes were red and swollen with crying. There was a black smudge on hercheek. 

"Take this chair, " said Vernon, and moved a comfortable one with itsback to the light. 

"Temple--let me present you to Miss Desmond. "

Temple bowed, with no flicker of recognition visible in his face. ButBetty, flushing scarlet, said:

"Mr. Temple and I have met before. "

There was the tiniest pause. Then Temple said: "I am so glad to meetyou again. I thought you had perhaps left Paris. "

"Let me give you some tea, " said Vernon. 

Tea was made for her, --and conversation. She drank the tea, but sheseemed not to know what to do with the conversation. 

It fluttered, aimlessly, like a bird with a broken wing. Lady St. Craye did her best, but talk is not easy when each one of a party hasits own secret pre-occupying interest, and an overlapping interest inthe preoccupation of the others. The air was too electric. 

Lady St. Craye had it on her lips that she must go--when Betty rosesuddenly. 

"Good-bye, " she said generally, looking round with miserable eyes thattried to look merely polite. 

"Must you go?" asked Vernon, furious with the complicated emotionsthat, warring in him, left him just as helpless as anyone else. 

"I do hope we shall meet again, " said Lady St. Craye. 

"Mayn't I see you home?" asked Temple unexpectedly, even to himself. 

Betty's "No, thank you, " was most definite. 

She went. Vernon had to let her go. He had guests. He could not leavethem. He had lost wholly his ordinary control of circumstances. Allthrough the petrifying awkwardness of the late talk he had beenseeking an excuse to go with Betty--to find out what was the matter. 

He closed the door and came back. There was no help for it. 

But there was help. Lady St. Craye gave it. She rose as Vernon cameback. 

"Quick!" she said, "Shall we go? Hadn't you better bring her backhere? Go after her at once. "

"You're an angel, " said Vernon. "No, don't go. Temple, look after LadySt. Craye. If you'll not think me rude?--Miss Desmond is in trouble, I'm afraid. "

"Of course she is--poor little thing. Oh, Mr. Vernon, do run! Shelooks quite despairing. There's your hat. Go--go!"

The door banged behind her. 

The other two, left alone, looked at each other. 

"I wonder--" said she. 

"Yes, " said he, "it's certainly mysterious. "

"We ought to have gone at once, " said she. "I should have done, ofcourse, only Mr. Vernon so elaborately explained that he expected her. One had to play up. And so she's a friend of yours?"

"She's not a friend of mine, " said Temple rather ruefully, "and Ididn't know Vernon was a friend of hers. You saw that she wouldn'thave my company at any price. "

"Mr. Vernon's a friend of her people, I believe. We saw her the otherday in the Bois, and he told me he knew them in England. Did you knowthem there too? Poor child, what a woe-begone little face it was!"

"No, not in England. I met her in Paris about a fortnight ago, but shedidn't like me, from the first, and our acquaintance broke off short. "

There was a silence. Lady St. Craye perceived a ring-fence ofreticence round the subject that interested her, and knew that she hadno art strong enough to break it down. 

She spoke again suddenly:

"Do you know you're not a bit the kind of man I expected you to be, Mr. Temple? I've heard so much of you from Mr. Vernon. We're such oldfriends, you know. "

"Apparently he can't paint so well with words as he does with oils. May I ask exactly how flattering the portrait was?"

"It wasn't flattering at all. --In fact it wasn't a portrait. "

"A caricature?"

"But you don't mind what people say of you, do you?"

"You are trying to frighten me. "

"No, really, " she said with pretty earnestness; "it's only that he hasalways talked about you as his best friend, and I imagined you wouldbe like him. "

Temple's uneasy wonderings about Betty's trouble, her acquaintancewith Vernon, the meaning of her visit to him, were pushed to the backof his mind. 

"I wish I were like him, " said he, --"at any rate, in his paintings. "

"At any rate--yes. But one can't have everything, you know. You havequalities which he hasn't--qualities that you wouldn't exchange forany qualities of his. "

"That wasn't what I meant; I--the fact is, I like old Vernon, but Ican't understand him. "

"That philosophy of life eludes you still? Now, I understand him, butI don't always like him--not all of him. "

"I wonder whether anyone understands him?"

"He's not such a sphinx as he looks!" Her tone betrayed a slightpique--"Now, your character would be much harder to read. That's oneof the differences. "

"We are all transparent enough--to those who look through the rightglasses, " said Temple. "And part of my character is my inability tofind any glass through which I could see him clearly. "

This comparison of his character and Vernon's, with its suddenassumption of intimacy, charmed yet embarrassed him. 

She saw both emotions and pitied him a little. But it was necessary tointerest this young man enough to keep him there till Vernon shouldreturn. Then Vernon would see her home, and she might find outsomething, however little, about Betty. But if this young man went shetoo must go. She could not outstay him in the rooms of his friend. Soshe talked on, and Temple was just as much at her mercy as Betty hadbeen at the mercy of the brother artist in the rabbit warren at LongBarton. 

But at seven o'clock Vernon had not returned, and it was, after all, Temple who saw her home. 

Temple, free from the immediate enchantment of her presence, felt therevival of a resentful curiosity. 

Why had Betty refused his help? Why had she sought Vernon's? Why didwomen treat him as though he were a curate and Vernon as though hewere a god? Well--Lady St. Craye at least had not treated him ascurates are treated. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

RENUNCIATION. 

Vernon tore down the stairs three and four at a time, and caught Bettyas she was stepping into a hired carriage. 

"What is it?" he asked. "What's the matter?"

"Oh, go back to your friends!" said Betty angrily. 

"My friends are all right. They'll amuse each other. Tell me. "

"Then you must come with me, " said she. "If I try to tell you here Ishall begin to cry again. Don't speak to me. I can't bear it. "

He got into the carriage. It was not until Betty had let herself intoher room and he had followed her in--not till they stood face to facein the middle of the carpet that he spoke again. 

"Now, " he said, "what is it? Where's your aunt, and--"

"Sit down, won't you?" she said, pulling off her hat and throwing iton the couch; "it'll take rather a long time to tell, but I must tellyou all about it, or else you can't help me. And if you don't help meI don't know what I shall do. "

Despair was in her voice. 

He sat down. Betty, in the chair opposite his, sat with handsnervously locked together. 

"Look here, " she said abruptly, "you're sure to think that everythingI've done is wrong, but it's no use your saying so. "

"I won't say so. "

"Well, then--that day, you know, after I saw you at the Bête--MadameGautier didn't come to fetch me, and I waited, and waited, and at lastI went to her flat, and she was dead, --and I ought to have telegraphedto my step-father to fetch me, but I thought I would like to have onenight in Paris first--you know I hadn't seen Paris at all, really. "

"Yes, " he said, trying not to let any anxiety into his voice. "Yes--goon. "

"And I went to the Café d'Harcourt--What did you say?"

"Nothing. "

"I thought it was where the art students went. And I met a girl there, and she was kind to me. "

"What sort of a girl? Not an art student?"

"No, " said Betty hardly, "she wasn't an art student. She told me whatshe was. "

"Yes?"

"And I--I don't think I should have done it just for me alone, but--Idid want to stay in Paris and work--and I wanted to help her to begood--she _is_ good really, in spite of everything. Oh, I know you'rehorribly shocked, but I can't help it! And now she's gone, --and Ican't find her. "

"I'm not shocked, " he said deliberately, "but I'm extremely stupid. How gone?"

"She was living with me here. --Oh, she found the rooms and showed mewhere to go for meals and gave me good advice--oh, she did everythingfor me! And now she's gone. And I don't know what to do. Paris is sucha horrible place. Perhaps she's been kidnapped or something. And Idon't know even how to tell the police. And all this time I'm talkingto you is wasted time. "

"It isn't wasted. But I must understand. You met this girl and she--"

"She asked your friend Mr. Temple--he was passing and she called outto him--to tell me of a decent hotel, but he asked so many questions. He gave me an address and I didn't go. I went back to her, and we wentto a hotel and I persuaded her to come and live with me. "

"But your aunt?"

Betty explained about her aunt. 

"And your father?"

She explained about her father. 

"And now she has gone, and you want to find her?"

"Want to find her?"--Betty started up and began to walk up and downthe room. --"I don't care about anything else in the world! She's adear; you don't know what a dear she is--and I know she was happyhere--and now she's gone! I never had a girl friend before--what?"

Vernon had winced, just as Paula had winced, and at the same words. 

"You've looked for her at the Café d'Harcourt?"

"No; I promised her that I'd never go there again. "

"She seems to have given you some good advice. "

"She advised me not to have anything to do with _you_" said Betty, suddenly spiteful. 

"That was good advice--when she gave it, " said Vernon, quietly; "butnow it's different. "

He was silent a moment, realising with a wonder beyond words howdifferent it was. Every word, every glance between him and Betty had, hitherto, been part of a play. She had been a charming figure in acharming comedy. He had known, as it were by rote, that she hadfeelings--a heart, affections--but they had seemed pale, dream-like, just a delightful background to his own sensations, strong andconscious and delicate. Now for the first time he perceived her asreal, a human being in the stress of a real human emotion. And he wasconscious of a feeling of protective tenderness, a real, open-airprimitive sentiment, with no smell of the footlights about it. He wasalone with Betty. He was the only person in Paris to whom she couldturn for help. What an opportunity for a fine scene in his bestmanner! And he found that he did not want a scene: he wanted to helpher. 

"Why don't you say something?" she said impatiently. "What am I todo?"

"You can't do anything. I'll do everything. You say she knows Temple. Well, I'll find him, and we'll go to her lodgings and find out ifshe's there. You don't know the address?"

"No, " said Betty. "I went there, but it was at night and I don't evenknow the street. "

"Now look here. " He took both her hands and held them firmly. "Youaren't to worry. I'll do everything. Perhaps she has been taken ill. In that case, when we find her, she'll need you to look after her. Youmust rest. I'm certain to find her. You must eat something. I'll sendyou in some dinner. And then lie down. "

"I couldn't sleep, " said Betty, looking at him with the eyes of achild that has cried its heart out. 

"Of course you couldn't. Lie down, and make yourself read. I'll getback as soon as I can. Good-bye. " There was something further thatwanted to get itself said, but the words that came nearest toexpressing it were "God bless you, "--and he did not say them. 

On the top of his staircase he found Temple lounging. 

"Hullo--still here? I'm afraid I've been a devil of a time gone, butMiss Desmond's--"

"I don't want to shove my oar in, " said Temple, "but I came back whenI'd seen Lady St. Craye home. I hope there's nothing wrong with MissDesmond. "

"Come in, " said Vernon. "I'll tell you the whole thing. "

They went into the room desolate with the disorder of half empty cupsand scattered plates with crumbs of cake on them. 

"Miss Desmond told me about her meeting you. Well, she gave you theslip; she went back and got that woman--Lottie what's her name--andtook her to live with her. "

"Good God! She didn't know, of course?"

"But she did know--that's the knock-down blow. She knew, and shewanted to save her. "

Temple was silent a moment. 

"I say, you know, though--that's rather fine, " he said presently. 

"Oh, yes, " said Vernon impatiently, "it's very romantic and all that. Well, the woman stayed a fortnight and disappeared to-day. MissDesmond is breaking her heart about her. "

"So she took her up, and--she's rather young for rescue work. "

"Rescue work? Bah! She talks of the woman as the only girl friendshe's ever had. And the woman's probably gone off with her watch andchain and a collection of light valuables. Only I couldn't tell MissDesmond that. So I promised to try and find the woman. She's athorough bad lot. I've run up against her once or twice with chaps Iknow. "

"She's not _that_ sort, " said Temple. "I know her fairly well. "

"What--Sir Galahad? Oh, I won't ask inconvenient questions. " Vernon'ssneer was not pretty. 

"She used to live with de Villermay, " said Temple steadily; "he wasthe first--the usual coffee maker business, you know, though God knowshow an English girl got into it. When he went home to be married--Itwas rather beastly. The father came up--offered her a present. Shethrew it at him. Then Schauermacher wanted her to live with him. No. She'd go to the devil her own way. And she's gone. "

"Can't something be done?" said Vernon. 

"I've tried all I know. You can save a woman who doesn't know whereshe's going. Not one who knows and means to go. Besides, she's been atit six months; she's past reclaiming now. "

"I wonder, " said Vernon--and his sneer had gone and he looked tenyears younger--"I wonder whether anybody's past reclaiming? Do youthink I am? Or you?"

The other stared at him. 

"Well, " Vernon's face aged again instantly, "the thing is: we've gotto 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 makecertain that she won't go back and live with that innocent girl. Doyou know her address?"

But she was not to be found at her address. She had come back, paidher bill, and taken away her effects. 

It was at the Café d'Harcourt, after all, that they found her, one ofa party of four. She nodded to them, and presently left her party andcame to spread her black and white flounces at their table. 

"What's the best news with you?" she asked gaily. "It's a hundredyears since I saw you, Bobby, and at least a million since I saw yourfriend. "

"The last time I saw you, " Temple said, "was the night when you askedme 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 Imeant 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 adeputation. "

"One and one _are_ two, " said Vernon; "and I did very much want totalk 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 careyou've taken of Miss Desmond, and for all your kindness and goodnessto her. "

"Oh!" was all Paula could say. She had expected something sodifferent. "I don't see what business it is of yours, though, " sheadded next moment. 

"Only that she's alone here, and I'm the only person she knows inParis. And I know, much better than she does, all that you've done forher sake. "

"I did it for my own sake. It was no end of a lark, " said Paulaeagerly, "that little dull pious life. And all the time I used tolaugh 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 anylonger, so I just came away. I was bored to death. "

"Yes, " he said, "you must have been. Just playing at cooking andhousework, 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--awfullycomic, 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 theBullier. You've got better fish to fry, I see. "

"Yes, " said Paula with sudden effrontery; "perhaps we'll look inlater. "

The others laughed and went. 

"Now, " she said, turning furiously on Vernon, "will you go? Or shallI? I don't want any more of you. "

"Just one word more, " he said with the odd change of expression thatmade him look young. "Tell me why you left her. She's crying her eyesout 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 andfriendless. You found her rooms, you set her in the way of makingfriends. And when you saw that she was in a fair way to be happy andcomfortable, 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 knewyou. You gave it all up--all the new life, the new chances--for hersake, 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 Iam. That's not the usual mistake. Yes, it _was_ all that, partly. AndI should have liked to stay--for ever and ever--if I could. Butsuppose I couldn't? Suppose I'd begun to find myself wishing for--allsorts of things, longing for them. Suppose I'd stayed till I began tothink 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 wassafer. --Well, go back to her and tell her I've gone to the devil andit's not her fault. Tell her I wasn't worth saving. But I did try tosave her. If you're half a man you won't undo my one little bit ofwork. "

"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, "Iwon't jaw. But this about you and her--well, it's made a difference tome 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 heryou've gone to the devil. You must write to her. And you can't tellher that either. "

"What's the good of writing?"

"A lie or two isn't much, when you've done all this for her. Come upto my place. You can write to her there. "

This was the letter that Paula wrote in Vernon's studio, among thehalf-empty cups and the scattered plates with cake-crumbs on them. 

 "My Dear Little Betty:

 "I must leave without saying good-bye, and I shall never see you again. My father has taken me back. I wrote to him and he came and found me. He has forgiven me everything, only I have had to promise never to speak to anyone I knew in Paris. It is all your doing, dear. God bless you. You have saved me. I shall pray for you every day as long as I live. 

 "Your poor

 "Paula. "

"Will that do?" she laughed as she held out the letter. 

He read it. And he did not laugh. 

"Yes--that'll do, " he said. "I'll tell her you've gone to England, andI'll send the letter to London to be posted. "

"Then that's all settled!"

"Can I do anything for _you_?" he asked. 

"God Himself can't do anything for me, " she said, biting the edge ofher veil. 

"Where are you going now?"

"Back to the d'Harcourt. It's early yet. "

She stood defiantly smiling at him. 

"What were you doing there--the night you met her?" he asked abruptly. 

"What does one do?"

"What's become of de Villermay?" he asked. 

"Gone home--got married. "

"And so you thought--"

"Oh, if you want to know what I thought you're welcome! I thought I'ddamn myself as deep as I could--to pile up the reckoning for him; andI've about done it. Good-bye. I must be getting on. "

"I'll come a bit of the way with you, " he said. 

At the door he turned, took her hand and kissed it gently andreverently. 

"That's very sweet of you. " She opened astonished eyes at him. "Ialways used to think you an awful brute. "

"It was very theatrical of me, " he told himself later. "But it summedup the situation. Sentimental ass you're growing!"

Betty got her letter from England and cried over it and was glad overit. 

"I have done one thing, anyway, " she told herself, "one really trulygood thing. I've saved my poor dear Paula. Oh, how right I was! How Iknew her!"

Book 3. --The Other Woman

CHAPTER XV. 

ON MOUNT PARNASSUS. 

At Long Barton the Reverend Cecil had strayed into Betty's room, nowno longer boudoir and bedchamber, but just a room, swept, dusted, tidy, with the horrible tidiness of a room that is not used. Therewere squares of bright yellow on the dull drab of the wall-paper, marking the old hanging places of the photographs and pictures thatBetty had taken to Paris. He opened the cupboard door: one or twofaded skirts, a flattened garden hat and a pair of Betty's old shoes. He shut the door again quickly, as though he had seen Betty's ghost. 

The next time he went to Sevenoaks he looked in at the builders anddecorators, gave an order, and chose a wall paper with little pinkroses on it. When Betty came home for Christmas she should not findher room the faded desert it was now. He ordered pink curtains tomatch the rosebuds. And it was when he got home that he found theletter that told him she was not to come at Christmas. 

But he did not countermand his order. If not at Christmas then atEaster; and whenever it was she should find her room a bower. Sinceshe had been away he had felt more and more the need to express hisaffection. He had expressed it, he thought, to the uttermost, byletting her go at all. And now he wanted to express it in detail, bypink curtains, satin-faced wall-paper with pink roses. The paper costtwo shillings a piece, and he gloated over the extravagance and overhis pretty, poetic choice. Usually the wall-papers at the Rectory hadbeen chosen by Betty, and the price limited to sixpence. He wouldrefrain from buying that Fuller's Church History, the beautiful brownfolio whose perfect boards and rich yellow paper had lived in hisdreams for the last three weeks, ever since he came upon it in the ragand bone shop in the little back street in Maidstone. When the rosebudpaper and the pink curtains were in their place, the shabby carpet wasan insult to their bright prettiness. The Reverend Cecil bought anOriental carpet--of the bright-patterned jute variety--and wasrelieved to find that it only cost a pound. 

The leaves were falling in brown dry showers in the Rectory garden, the chrysanthemums were nearly over, the dahlias blackened andblighted by the first frosts. A few pale blooms still clung to thegaunt hollyhock stems; here and there camomile flowers, "medicinedaisies" Betty used to call them when she was little, their whitenesstarnished, showed among bent dry stalks of flowers dead and forgotten. Round Betty's window the monthly rose bloomed pale and pink amiddisheartened foliage. The damp began to shew on the North walls of therooms. A fire in the study now daily, for the sake of the books: onein the drawing-room, weekly, for the sake of the piano and thefurniture. And for Betty, in far-away Paris, a fire of crackling twigsand long logs in the rusty fire-basket, and blue and yellow flamesleaping to lick the royal arms of France on the wrought-ironfire-back. 

The rooms were lonely to Betty now that Paula was gone. She missed herinexpressibly. But the loneliness was lighted by a glow of pride, oftriumph, of achievement. Her deception of her step-father wasjustified. She had been the means of saving Paula. But for her Paulawould not have returned, like the Prodigal son, to the father's house. Betty pictured her there, subdued, saddened, but inexpressibly happy, warming her cramped heart in the sun of forgiveness and love. 

"Thank God, I have done some good in the world, " said Betty. 

In the brief interview which Vernon took to tell her that Paula hadgone to England with her father, Betty noticed no change in him. Shehad no thought for him then. And in the next weeks, when she hadthoughts for him, she did not see him. 

She could not but be glad that he was in Paris. In the midst of hernew experiences he seemed to her like an old friend. Yet his beingthere put a different complexion on her act of mutiny. When shedecided to deceive her step-father, and to stay on in Paris alonePaula had been to be saved, and _he_ had been, to her thought, inVienna, not to be met. Now Paula was gone--and he was here. In thenight when Betty lay wakeful and heard the hours chimed by a conventbell whose voice was toneless and gray as an autumn sky it seemed toher that all was wrong, that she had committed a fault that was almosta crime, that there was nothing now to be done but to confess, to gohome and to expiate, as the Prodigal Son doubtless did among thethorny roses of forgiveness, those days in the far country. But alwayswith the morning light came the remembrance that it was not herfather's house to which she must go to make submission. It was herstep-father's. And after all, it was her own life--she had to live it. Once that confession and submission made she saw herself enslavedbeyond hope of freedom. Meanwhile here was the glad, gay life ofindependence, new experiences, new sensations. And her step-father wasdoubtless glad to be rid of her. 

"It isn't as though anyone wanted me at home, " she said; "andeverything here is so new and good, and I have quite a few friendsalready--and I shall have more. This is what they call seeing life. "

Life as she saw it was good to see. The darker, grimmer side of thestudent life was wholly hidden from Betty. She saw only a colony ofyoung artists of all nations--but most of England and America--allgood friends and comrades, working and playing with an equalenthusiasm. She saw girls treated as equals and friends by the menstudents. If money were short it was borrowed from the first friendone met, and quite usually repaid when the home allowance arrived. Ayoung man would borrow from a young woman or a young woman from ayoung man as freely as school-boys from each other. Most girls had aspecial friend among the boys. Betty thought at first that these mustbe betrothed lovers. Miss Voscoe, the American, stared when she putthe question about a pair who had just left the restaurant togetherwith the announcement that they were off to the Musée Cluny for theafternoon. 

"Engaged?" Not that I know of. Why should they be?" she said in a tonethat convicted Betty of a social lapse in the putting of the question. Yet she defended herself. 

"Well, you know, in England people don't generally go about togetherlike that unless they're engaged, or relations. "

"Yes, " said Miss Voscoe, filling her glass from the little bottle ofweak white wine that costs threepence at Garnier's, "I've heard thatis so in your country. Your girls always marry the wrong man, don'tthey, because he's the first and only one they've ever had theprivilege of conversing with?"

"Not quite always, I hope, " said Betty good humouredly. 

"Now in our country, " Miss Voscoe went on, "girls look around so asthey can tell there's more different sorts of boys than there are ofsquashes. Then when they get married to a husband it's because theylike him, or because they like his dollars, or for some reason thatisn't just that he's the only one they've ever said five words on endto. "

"There's something in that, " Betty owned; "but my aunt says men neverwant to be friends with girls--they always want--"

"To flirt? May be they do, though I don't think so. Our men don't, anyway. But if the girl doesn't want to flirt things won't get verytangled up. "

"But suppose a man got really fond of you, then he might think youliked him too, if you were always about with him--"

"Do him good to have his eyes opened then! Besides, who's always aboutwith anyone? You have a special friend for a bit, and just walk aroundand see the sights, --and then change partners and have a turn withsomebody else. It's just like at a dance. Nobody thinks you're in lovebecause you dance three or four times running with one boy. "

Betty reflected as she ate her _noix de veau_. It was certainly truethat she had seen changes of partners. Milly St. Leger, the belle ofthe students' quarter, changed her partners every week. 

"You see, " the American went on, "We're not thestay-at-home-and-mind-Auntie kind that come here to study. What wewant is to learn to paint and to have a good time in between. Don'tyou make any mistake, Miss Desmond. This time in Paris is _the_ timeof our lives to most of us. It's what we'll have to look back at andtalk about. And suppose every time there was any fun going we had tosend around to the nearest store for a chaperon how much fun wouldthere be left by the time she toddled in? No--the folks at home whotrust us to work trust us to play. And we have our little headsscrewed on the right way. "

Betty remembered that she had been trusted neither for play nor work. Yet, from the home standpoint she had been trustworthy, moretrustworthy than most. She had not asked Vernon, her only friend, tocome and see her, and when he had said, "When shall I see you again?"she had answered, "I don't know. Thank you very much. Good-bye. "

"I don't know how _you_ were raised, " Miss Voscoe went on, "but Iguess it was in the pretty sheltered home life. Now I'd bet you fellin love with the first man that said three polite words to you!"

"I'm not twenty yet, " said Betty, with ears and face of scarlet. 

"Oh, you mean I'm to think nobody's had time to say those three politewords yet? You come right along to my studio, I've got a tea on, andI'll see if I can't introduce my friends to you by threes, so as youget nine polite words at once. You can't fall in love with three boysa minute, can you?"

Betty went home and put on her prettiest frock. After all, one wasrisking a good deal for this Paris life, and one might as well get asmuch out of it as one could. And one always had a better time of itwhen one was decently dressed. Her gown was of dead-leaf velvet, withgreen undersleeves and touches of dull red and green embroidery atelbows and collar. 

Miss Voscoe's studio was at the top of a hundred and seventeenpolished wooden steps, and as Betty neared the top flight the sound oftalking and laughter came down to her, mixed with the rattle of chinaand the subdued tinkle of a mandolin. She opened the door--the roomseemed full of people, but she only saw two. One was Vernon and theother was Temple. 

Betty furiously resented the blush that hotly covered neck, ears andface. 

"Here you are!" cried Miss Voscoe. She was kind: she gave but onefleet glance at the blush and, linking her arm in Betty's, led herround the room. Betty heard her name and other names. People werebeing introduced to her. She heard:

"Pleased to know you, --"

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, --"

"Delighted to meet you--"

and realised that her circle of American acquaintances was widening. When Miss Voscoe paused with her before the group of which Temple andVernon formed part Betty felt as though her face had swelled to thatdegree that her eyes must, with the next red wave, start out of herhead. The two hands, held out in successive greeting, gave Miss Voscoethe key to Betty's flushed entrance. 

She drew her quickly away, and led her up to a glaring poster where ayoung woman in a big red hat sat at a café table, and under cover ofBetty's purely automatic recognition of the composition's talent, murmured:

"Which of them was it?"

"I beg your pardon?" Betty mechanically offered the deferent defence. 

"Which was it that said the three polite words--before you'd ever metanyone else?"

"Ah!" said Betty, "you're so clever--"

"Too clever to live, yes, " said Miss Voscoe; "but before I die--whichwas it?"

"I was going to say, " said Betty, her face slowly drawing back intoitself its natural colouring, "that you're so clever you don't want tobe told things. If you're sure it's one of them, you ought to knowwhich. "

"Well, " remarked Miss Voscoe, "I guess Mr. Temple. "

"Didn't I say you were clever?" said Betty. 

"Then it's the other one. "

Before the studio tea was over, Vernon and Temple both had conveyed toBetty the information that it was the hope of meeting her that haddrawn them to Miss Voscoe's studio that afternoon. 

"Because, after all, " said Vernon, "we _do_ know each other betterthan either of us knows anyone else in Paris. And, if you'd let me, Icould 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'sgone, and--"

"We'll respect the conventions, " said Vernon gaily, "but theconventions 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 conventionalthan Clapham. I should like to tell you, some time, only--But Ihaven'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--youwanted to marry me. You didn't ever, did you?"

Vernon was silent: none of his habitual defences served him in thishour. 

"You see, " Betty went on, "all that sort of thing is such nonsense. IfI knew you cared about someone else everything would be so simple. "

"Eliminate love, " said Vernon, "and the world is a simple example invulgar fractions. "

"I want it to be simple addition, " said Betty. "Lady St. Craye is verybeautiful. "

"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 theproposal 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 wasan art that he had studied for years. 

"Say, you two!"

The voice of Miss Voscoe fell like a pebble into the pool of silencethat was slowly widening between them. 

"Say--we're going to start a sketch-club for really reliable girls. Wecan 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 ofmore 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 themathematical 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 astain upon its character. "

"Won't you let us join?" asked an Irish student. "You'll be lostentirely without a Lord of Creation to sharpen your pencils. "

"We mean to _work_, " said Miss Voscoe; "if you want to work take a boxof matches and a couple of sticks of brimstone and make a littlesketch class of your own. "

"I don't see what you want with models, " said a very young and shy boystudent. "Couldn't you pose for each other, and--"

A murmur of dissent from the others drove him back into shy silence. 

"No amateur models in this Academy, " said Miss Voscoe. "Oh, we'll makethe time-honoured institutions sit up with the work we'll do. Let'sall pledge ourselves to send in to the Salon--or anyway to theIndépendants! What we're suffering from in this quarter'sgit-up-and-git. Why should we be contented to be nobody?"

"On the contrary, " said Vernon, "Miss Voscoe is everybody--almost!"

"I'm the nobody who can't get a word in edgeways anyhow, " she said. "What I've been trying to say ever since I was born--pretty near--isthat what this class wants is a competent Professor, some bullytop-of-the-tree artist, to come and pull our work all to pieces andwipe his boots on the bits. Mr. Vernon, don't you know any one who'spining to give us free crits?"

"Temple is, " said Vernon. "There's no mistaking that longing glance ofhis. "

"As a competent professor I make you my bow of gratitude, " saidTemple, "but I should never have the courage to criticise the work ofnine fair ladies. "

"You needn't criticise them all at once, " said a large girl fromMinneapolis, "nor yet all in the gaudy eye of heaven. We'll screen offa corner for our Professor--sort of confessional business. You sitthere and we'll go to you one by one with our sins in our hand. "

"_That_ would scare him some I surmise, " said Miss Voscoe. 

"Not at all, " said Temple, a little nettled, he hardly knew why. 

"I didn't know you were so brave, " said the Minneapolis girl. 

"Perhaps he didn't want you to know, " said Miss Voscoe; "perhapsthat's his life's dark secret. "

"People often pretend to a courage that they haven't, " said Vernon. "Aconsistent pose of cowardice, that would be novel and--I see the ideadeveloping--more than useful. "

"Is that _your_ pose?" asked Temple, still rather tartly, "because ifit is, I beg to offer you, in the name of these ladies, the chair ofProfessor-behind-the-screen. "

"I'm not afraid of the nine Muses, " Vernon laughed back, "as long asthey are nine. It's the light that lies in woman's eyes that I'vealways had such a nervous dread of. "

"It does make you blink, bless it, " said the Irish student, "but notfrom nine pairs at once, as you say. It's the light from one pair thatturns your head. "

"Mr. Vernon isn't weak in the head, " said the shy boy suddenly. 

"No, " said Vernon, "it's the heart that's weak with me. I have to bevery careful of it. "

"Well, but will you?" said a downright girl. 

"Will I what? I'm sorry, but I've lost my cue, I think. Where werewe--at losing hearts, wasn't it?"

"No, " said the downright girl, "I didn't mean that. I mean will youcome and criticise our drawings?"

"Fiddle, " said Miss Voscoe luminously. "Mr. Vernon's too big forthat. "

"Oh, well, " said Vernon, "if you don't think I should be competent!"

"You don't mean to say you would?"

"Who wouldn't jump at the chance of playing Apollo to the fairest setof muses in the Quartier?" said Temple; "but after all, I had therefusal of the situation--I won't renounce--"

"Bobby, you unman me, " interrupted Vernon, putting down his cup, "youshall _not_ renounce the altruistic pleasure which you promise toyourself in yielding this professorship to me. I accept it. "

"I'm hanged if you do!" said Temple. "You proposed me yourself, andI'm elected--aren't I, Miss Voscoe?"

"That's so, " said she; "but Mr. Vernon's president too. "

"I've long been struggling with the conviction that Temple and I wereas brothers. Now I yield--Temple, to my arms!"

They embraced, elegantly, enthusiastically, almost as Frenchmen use;and the room applauded the faithful burlesque. 

"What's come to me that I should play the goat like this?" Vernonasked himself, as he raised his head from Temple's broad shoulder. Then he met Betty's laughing eyes, and no longer regretted hisassumption of that difficult role. 

"It's settled then. Tuesdays and Fridays, four to six, " he said. "Atlast I am to be--"

"The light of the harem, " said Miss Voscoe. 

"Can there be two lights?" asked Temple anxiously. "If not, considerthe fraternal embrace withdrawn. "

"No, you're _the_ light, of course, " said Betty. "Mr. Vernon's theAncient Light. He's older than you are, isn't he?"

The roar of appreciation of her little joke surprised Betty, and, alittle, pleased her--till Miss Voscoe whispered under cover of it:

"_Ancient_ light? Then he _was_ the three-polite-word man?"

Betty explained her little jest. 

"All the same, " said the other, "it wasn't any old blank walls youwere thinking about. I believe he is the one. "

"It's a great thing to be able to believe anything, " said Betty; andthe talk broke up into duets. She found that Temple was speaking toher. 

"I came here to-day because I wanted to meet you, Miss Desmond, " hewas saying. "I hope you don't think it's cheek of me to say it, butthere's something about you that reminds me of the country at home. "

"That's a very pretty speech, " said Betty. He reminded her of the Caféd'Harcourt, but she did not say so. 

"You remind me of a garden, " he went on, "but I don't like to see agarden without a hedge round it. "

"You think I ought to have a chaperon, " said Betty bravely, "butchaperons aren't needed in this quarter. "

"I wish I were your brother, " said Temple. 

"I'm so glad you're not, " said Betty. She wanted no chaperonage, evenfraternal. But the words made him shrink, and then sent a soft warmththrough him. On the whole he was not sorry that he was not herbrother. 

At parting Vernon, at the foot of the staircase, said:

"And when may I see you again?"

"On Tuesday, when the class meets. "

"But I didn't mean when shall I see the class. When shall I see MissDesmond?"

"Oh, whenever you like, " Betty answered gaily; "whenever Lady St. Craye can spare you. "

He let her say it. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

"LOVE AND TUPPER. "

"Whenever Vernon liked" proved to be the very next day. He was waitingoutside the door of the atelier when Betty, in charcoal-smearedpinafore, left the afternoon class. 

"Won't you dine with me somewhere to-night?" said he. 

"I am going to Garnier's, " she said. Not even for him, friend of hersand affianced of another as he might be, would she yet break the ruleof a life Paula had instituted. 

"Fallen as I am, " he answered gaily, "I am not yet so low as to beincapable of dining at Garnier's. "

So when Betty passed through the outer room of the restaurant andalong the narrow little passage where eyes and nose attest stronglythe neighborhood of the kitchen, she was attended by a figure thataroused the spontaneous envy of all her acquaintances. In the innerroom where they dined it was remarked that such a figure would be moreat home at Durand's or the Café de Paris than at Garnier's. That nightthe first breath of criticism assailed Betty. To afficher oneself witha fellow-student--a "type, " Polish or otherwise--that was all verywell, but with an obvious Boulevardier, a creature from the otherside, this dashed itself against the conventions of the ArtisticQuartier. And conventions--even of such quarters--are iron-strong. 

"Fiddle-de-dee, " said Miss Voscoe to her companions' shocked comments, "they were raised in the same village, or something. He used to giveher peanuts when he was in short jackets, and she used to halve hercandies with him. Friend of childhood's hour, that's all. And besideshe's one of the presidents of our Sketch Club. "

But all Garnier's marked that whereas the habitués contentedthemselves with an omelette aux champignons, sauté potatoes and aPetit Suisse, or the like modest menu, Betty's new friend ordered forhimself, and for her, "a real regular dinner, " beginning with horsd'oeuvre and ending with "mendiants. " "Mendiants" are raisins andnuts, the nearest to dessert that at this season you could get atGarniers. Also he passed over with smiling disrelish the littlecarafons of weak wine for which one pays five sous if the wine be red, and six if it be white. He went out and interviewed Madame at herlittle desk among the flowers and nuts and special sweet dishes, andit was a bottle of real wine with a real cork to be drawn that adornedthe table between him and Betty. To her the whole thing was of thenature of a festival. She enjoyed the little sensation created by hercompanion; and the knowledge which she thought she had of hisrelations to Lady St. Craye absolved her of any fear that in diningwith him tête-à-tête she was doing anything "not quite nice. " To herthe thought of his engagement was as good or as bad as a chaperon. ForBetty's innocence was deeply laid, and had survived the shock of allthe waves that had beaten against it since her coming to Paris. It wasmore than innocence, it was a very honest, straightforward childishnaiveté. 

"It's almost the same as if he was married, " she said: "there can't beany harm in having dinner with a man who's married--or almostmarried. "

So she enjoyed herself. Vernon exerted himself to amuse her. But hewas surprised to find that he was not so happy as he had expected tobe. It was good that Betty had permitted him to dine with her alone, but it was flat. After dinner he took her to the Odeon, and she saidgood-night to him with a lighter heart than she had known since Paulaleft her. 

In these rooms now sometimes it was hard to keep one's eyes shut. Andto keep her eyes shut was now Betty's aim in life, even more than theart for which she pretended to herself that she lived. For now thatPaula had gone the deception of her father would have seemed lessjustifiable, had she ever allowed herself to face the thought of itfor more than a moment; but she used to fly the thought and go roundto one of the girls' rooms to talk about Art with a big A, and forgethow little she liked or admired Betty Desmond. 

She was now one of a circle of English, American and German students. The Sketch Club had brought her eight new friends, and they went aboutin parties by twos and threes, or even sevens and eights, and Bettywent with them, enjoying the fun of it all, which she liked, andmissing all that she would not have liked if she had seen it. ButVernon was the only man with whom she dined tête-à-tête or went to thetheatre alone. 

To him the winter passed in a maze of doubt and self-contempt. Hecould not take what the gods held out: could not draw from hisconstant companionship of Betty the pleasure which his artisticprinciples, his trained instincts taught him to expect. He had now allthe tête-à-têtes he cared to ask for, and he hated that it should beso. He almost wanted her to be in a position where such things shouldbe impossible to her. He wanted her to be guarded, watched, sheltered. And he had never wanted that for any woman in his life before. 

"I shall be wishing her in a convent next, " he said, "with high wallswith spikes on the top. Then I should walk round and round the outsideof the walls and wish her out. But I should not be able to get at her. And nothing else would either. "

Lady St. Craye was more charming than ever. Vernon knew it andsometimes he deliberately tried to let her charm him. But though heperceived her charm he could not feel it. Always before he had feltwhat he chose to feel. Or perhaps--he hated the thought and would notlook at it--perhaps all his love affairs had been just pictures, perhaps he had never felt anything but an artistic pleasure in theirgrouping and lighting. Perhaps now he was really feeling natural humanemotion, didn't they call it? But that was just it. He wasn't. What hefelt was resentment, dissatisfaction, a growing inability to controlevents or to prearrange his sensations. He felt that he himself wascontrolled. He felt like a wild creature caught in a trap. The trapwas not gilded, and he was very uncomfortable in it. Even the affairsof others almost ceased to amuse him. He could hardly call up acynical smile at Lady St. Craye's evident misapprehension of thoseconscientious efforts of his to be charmed by her. He was only movedto a very faint amusement when one day Bobbie Temple, smoking in thestudio, broke a long silence abruptly to say:

"Look here. Someone was saying the other day that a man can be in lovewith two women at a time. Do you think it's true?"

"Two? Yes. Or twenty. "

"Then it's not love, " said Temple wisely. 

"They call it love, " said Vernon. "_I_ don't know what they mean byit. What do _you_ mean?"

"By love?"

"Yes. "

"I don't exactly know, " said Temple slowly. "I suppose it's wanting tobe with a person, and thinking about nothing else. And thinkingthey're the most beautiful and all that. And going over everythingthat they've ever said to you, and wanting--"

"Wanting?"

"Well, I suppose if it's really love you want to marry them. "

"You can't marry _them_, you know, " said Vernon; "at least notsimultaneously. That's just it. Well?"

"Well that's all. If that's not love, what is?"

"I'm hanged if _I_ know, " said Vernon. 

"I thought you knew all about those sort of things. "

"So did I, " said Vernon to himself. Aloud he said:

"If you want a philosophic definition: it's passion transfigured bytenderness--at least I've often said so. "

"But can you feel that for two people at once?"

"Or, " said Vernon, getting interested in his words, "it's tendernessintoxicated by passion, and not knowing that it's drunk--"

"But can you feel that for two--"

"Oh, bother, " said Vernon, "every sort of fool-fancy calls itselflove. There's the pleasure of pursuit--there's vanity, there's thesatisfaction of your own amour-propre, there's desire, there'sintellectual attraction, there's the love of beauty, there's theartist's joy in doing what you know you can do well, and getting apretty woman for sole audience. You might feel one or two or twenty ofthese things for one woman, and one or two or twenty different onesfor another. But if you mean do you love two women in the same way, Isay no. Thank Heaven it's new every time. "

"It mayn't be the same way, " said Temple, "but it's the same thing toyou--if you feel you can't bear to give either of them up. "

"Well, then, you can marry one and keep on with the other. Or be'friends' with both and marry neither. Or cut the whole show and go tothe Colonies. "

"Then you have to choose between being unhappy or being a blackguard. "

"My good chap, that's the situation in which our emotions are alwayslanding us--our confounded emotions and the conventions of Society. "

"And how are you to know whether the thing's love--or--all those otherthings?"

"You don't know: you can't know till it's too late for your knowing tomatter. Marriage is like spinach. You can't tell that you hate it tillyou've tried it. Only--"

"Well?"

"I think I've heard it said, " Vernon voiced his own sudden conviction, very carelessly, "that love wants to give and passion wants to take. Love wants to possess the beloved object--and to make her happy. Desire wants possession too--but the happiness is to be for oneself;and if there's not enough happiness for both so much the worse. If I'mtalking like a Sunday School book you've brought it on yourself. "

"I like it, " said Temple. 

"Well, since the Dissenting surplice has fallen on me, I'll give you atest. I believe that the more you love a woman the less your thoughtswill dwell on the physical side of the business. You want to take careof her. "

"Yes, " said Temple. 

"And then often, " Vernon went on, surprised to find that he wanted tohelp the other in his soul-searchings, "if a chap's not had much to dowith women--the women of our class, I mean--he gets a bit dazed withthem. They're all so nice, confound them. If a man felt he was fallingin love with two women at once, and he had the tiresome temperamentthat takes these things seriously, it wouldn't be a bad thing for himto go away into the country, and moon about for a few weeks, and seewhich was the one that bothered his brain most. Then he'd know wherehe was, and not be led like a lamb to the slaughter by the wrong one. They can't both get him, you know, unless his intentions are strictlydishonourable. "

"I wasn't putting the case that either of them wished to get him, "said Temple carefully. 

Vernon nodded. 

"Of course not. The thing simplifies itself wonderfully if neither ofthem wants to get him. Even if they both do, matters are lesscomplicated. It's when only one of them wants him that it's the verydevil for a man not to be sure what _he_ wants. That's very clumsilyput--what I mean is--"

"I see what you mean, " said Temple impatiently. 

"--It's the devil for him because then he lets himself drift and theone who wants him collars him and then of course she always turns outto be the one he didn't want. My observations are as full of wants asan advertisement column. But the thing to do in all relations of lifeis to make up your mind what it is that you _do_ want, and then tojolly well see that you get it. What I want is a pipe. "

He filled and lighted one. 

"You talk, " said Temple slowly, "as though a man could get anyone--Imean anything, he wanted. "

"So he can, my dear chap, if he only wants her badly enough. "

"Badly enough?"

"Badly enough to make the supreme sacrifice to get her. "

"?" Temple enquired. 

"Marriage, " Vernon answered; "there's only one excuse for marriage. "

"Excuse?"

"Excuse. And that excuse is that one couldn't help it. The only excuseone will have to offer, some day, to the recording angel, for allone's other faults and follies. A man who _can_ help getting married, and doesn't, deserves all he gets. "

"I don't agree with you in the least, " said Temple, --"about marriage, Imean. A man _ought_ to want to get married--"

"To anybody? Without its being anybody in particular?"

"Yes, " said Temple stoutly. "If he gets to thirty without wanting tomarry any one in particular, he ought to look about till he finds someone he does want. It's the right and proper thing to marry and havekiddies. "

"Oh, if you're going to be Patriarchal, " said Vernon. "What a symbolicdialogue! We begin with love and we end with marriage! There's thetragedy of romance, in a nut-shell. Yes, life's a beastly rotten show, and the light won't last more than another two hours. "

[Illustration: "Unfinished, but a disquieting likeness"]

"Your hints are always as delicate as gossamer, " said Temple. "Don'tthrow anything at me. I'm going. "

He went, leaving his secret in Vernon's hands. 

"Poor old Temple! That's the worst of walking carefully all your days:you do come such an awful cropper when you do come one. Two women. TheJasmine lady must have been practising on his poor little heart. Heigh-ho, I wish she could do as much for me! And the other one?_Her_--I suppose. "

The use of the pronoun, the disuse of the grammar pulled him up short. 

"By Jove, " he said, "that's what people say when--But I'm not inlove--with anybody. I want to work. "

But he didn't work. He seldom did now. And when he did the work wasnot good. His easel held most often the portrait of Betty that hadbeen begun at Long Barton--unfinished, but a disquieting likeness. Hewalked up and down his room not thinking, but dreaming. His dreamstook him to the warren, in the pure morning light; he saw Betty; hetold himself what he had said, what she had said. 

"And it was I who advised her to come to Paris. If only I'd knownthen--"

He stopped and asked himself what he knew now that he had not knownthen, refused himself the answer, and went to call on Lady St. Craye. 

Christmas came and went; the black winds of January swept theBoulevards, and snow lay white on the walls of court and garden. Betty's life was full now. 

The empty cage that had opened its door to love at Long Barton had nowother occupants. Ambition was beginning to grow its wing feathers. Shecould draw--at least some day she would be able to draw. Already shehad won a prize with a charcoal study of a bare back. But she did notdare to name this to her father, and when he wrote to ask what was thesubject of her prize drawing she replied with misleading truth that itwas a study from nature. His imagination pictured a rustic cottage, awater-wheel, a castle and mountains in the distance and cows and apeasant in the foreground. 

But though her life was now crowded with new interests thatfirst-comer was not ousted. Only he had changed his plumage and shecalled him Friendship. She blushed sometimes and stamped her foot whenshe remembered those meetings in the summer mornings, her tremors, herheart-beats. And oh, the "drivel" she had written in her diary!

"Girls ought never to be allowed to lead that 'sheltered home life, '"she said to Miss Voscoe, "with nothing real in it. It makes your mindall swept and garnished and then you hurry to fill it up withrubbish. "

"That's so, " said her friend. 

"If ever _I_ have a daughter, " said Betty, "she shall set to work at_something_ definite the very instant she leaves school--if it's onlyHebrew or algebra. Not just Parish duties that she didn't begin, anddoesn't want to go on with. But something that's her _own_ work. "

"You're beginning to see straight. I surmised you would by and by. Butdon't you go to the other end of the see-saw, Miss Daisy-Face!"

"What do you mean?" asked Betty. It was the morning interval whenstudents eat patisserie out of folded papers. The two were on thewindow ledge of the Atelier, looking down on the convent garden wherealready the buds were breaking to green leaf. 

"Why, there's room for the devil even if your flat ain't swept andgarnished. He folds up mighty small, and gets into less space than apoppy-seed. "

"What do you mean?" asked Betty again. 

"I mean that Vernon chap, " said Miss Voscoe down-rightly. "I told youto change partners every now and then. But with you it's that Vernonthis week and last week and the week after next. "

"I've known him longer than I have the others, and I like him, " saidBetty. 

"Oh, he's all right; fine and dandy!" replied Miss Voscoe. "He's a bigman, too, in his own line. Not the kind you expect to see knockingabout at a students' crémerie. Does he give you lessons?"

"He did at home, " said Betty. 

"Take care he doesn't teach you what's the easiest thing in creationto learn about a man. "

"What's that?" Betty did not like to have to ask the question. 

"Why, how not to be able to do without him, of course, " said MissVoscoe. 

"You're quite mistaken, " said Betty eagerly: "one of the reasons Idon't mind going about with him so much is that he's engaged to bemarried. "

"Acquainted with the lady?"

"Yes, " said Betty, sheltering behind the convention that anintroduction at a tea-party constitutes acquaintanceship. She was gladMiss Voscoe had not asked her if she _knew_ Lady St. Craye. 

"Oh, well"--Miss Voscoe jumped up and shook the flakes of pastry offher pinafore--"if she doesn't mind, I guess I've got no call to. Butwhy don't you give that saint in the go-to-hell collar a turn?"

"Meaning?"

"Mr. Temple. He admires you no end. He'd be always in your pocket ifyou'd let him. He's worth fifty of the other man _as_ a man, if heisn't as an artist. I keep my eyes skinned--and the Sketch Club givesme a chance to tot them both up. I guess I can size up a man some. Theother man isn't _fast_. That's how it strikes me. "

"Fast?" echoed Betty, bewildered. 

"Fast dye: fast colour. I suspicion he'd go wrong a bit in the wash. Temple's fast colour, warranted not to run. "

"I know, " said Betty, "but I don't care for the colour, and I'm rathertired of the pattern. "

"I wish you'd tell me which of the two was the three-polite-word man. "

"I know you do. But surely you see _now_?"

"You're too cute. Just as likely it's the Temple one, and that's whyyou're so sick of the pattern by now. "

"Didn't I tell you you were clever?" laughed Betty. 

But, all the same, next evening when Vernon called to take her todinner, she said:

"Couldn't we go somewhere else? I'm tired of Garnier's. "

Vernon was tired of Garnier's, too. 

"Do you know Thirion's?" he said. "Thirion's in the Boulevard St. Germain, Thirion's where Du Maurier used to go, and Thackeray, and allsorts of celebrated people; and where the host treats you like afriend, and the waiter like a brother?"

"I should love to be treated like a waiter's brother. Do let's go, "said Betty. 

"He's a dream of a waiter, " Vernon went on as they turned down thelighted slope of the Rue de Rennes, "has a voice like a trumpet, andtakes a pride in calling twenty orders down the speaking-tube in onebreath, ending up with a shout. He never makes a mistake either. Shallwe walk, or take the tram, or a carriage?"

The Fate who was amusing herself by playing with Betty's destiny hadsent Temple to call on Lady St. Craye that afternoon, and Lady St. Craye had seemed bored, so bored that she had hardly appeared tolisten to Temple's talk, which, duly directed by her quite early intothe channel she desired for it, flowed in a constant stream over thename, the history, the work, the personality of Vernon. When at lastthe stream ebbed Lady St. Craye made a pretty feint of stifling ayawn. 

"Oh, how horrid I am!" she cried with instant penitence, "and how veryrude you will think me! I think I have the blues to-day, or, to bemore French and more poetic, the black butterflies. It _is_ so sweetof you to have let me talk to you. I know I've been as stupid as anowl. Won't you stay and dine with me? I'll promise to cheer up if youwill. "

Mr. Temple would, more than gladly. 

"Or no, " Lady St. Craye went on, "that'll be dull for you, and perhapseven for me if I begin to think I'm boring you. Couldn't we dosomething desperate--dine at a Latin Quarter restaurant for instance?What was that place you were telling me of, where the waiter has awonderful voice and makes the orders he shouts down the tube soundlike the recitative of the basso at the Opera. "

"Thirion's, " said Temple; "but it wasn't I, it was Vernon. "

"Thirion's, that's it!" Lady St. Craye broke in before Vernon's nameleft his lips. "Would you like to take me there to dine, Mr. Temple?"

It appeared that Mr. Temple would like it of all things. 

"Then I'll go and put on my hat, " said she and trailed her sea-greentea-gown across the room. At the door she turned to say: "It will befun, won't it?"--and to laugh delightedly, like a child who ispromised a treat. 

That was how it happened that Lady St. Craye, brushing her dark fursagainst the wall of Thirion's staircase, came, followed by Temple, into the room where Betty and Vernon, their heads rather closetogether, were discussing the menu. 

This was what Lady St. Craye had thought of more than a little. Yet itwas not what she had expected. Vernon, perhaps, yes: or the girl. Butnot Vernon and the girl together. Not now. At her very first visit. Itwas not for a second that she hesitated. Temple had not even had timeto see who it was to whom she spoke before she had walked over to thetwo, and greeted them. 

"How perfectly delightful!" she said. "Miss Desmond, I've been meaningto call on you, but it's been so cold, and I've been so cross, I'vecalled on nobody. Ah, Mr. Vernon, you too?"

She looked at the vacant chair near his, and Vernon had to say:

"You'll join us, of course?"

So the two little parties made one party, and one of the party wasangry and annoyed, and no one of the party was quite pleased, and allfour concealed what they felt, and affected what they did not feel, with as much of the tact of the truly well-bred as each could call up. In this polite exercise Lady St. Craye was easily first. 

She was charming to Temple, she was very nice to Betty, and she spoketo Vernon with a delicate, subtle, faint suggestion of proprietorshipin her tone. At least that was how it seemed to Betty. To Temple itseemed that she was tacitly apologising to an old friend for havinginvoluntarily broken up a dinner à deux. To Vernon her tone seemed tospell out an all but overmastering jealousy proudly overmastered. Allthat pretty fiction of there being now no possibility of sentimentbetween him and her flickered down and died. And with it the interestthat he had felt in her. "_She_ have unexplored reserves? Bah!" hetold himself, "she is just like the rest. " He felt that she had notcome from the other side of the river just to dine with Temple. Heknew she had been looking for him. And the temptation assailed him toreward her tender anxiety by devoting himself wholly to Betty. Then heremembered what he had let Betty believe, as to the relations in whichhe stood to this other woman. 

His face lighted up with a smile of answering tenderness. Withoutneglecting Betty he seemed to lay the real homage of his heart at thefeet of that heart's lady. 

"By Jove, " he thought, as the dark, beautiful eyes met his in a lookof more tenderness than he had seen in them this many a day, "if onlyshe knew how she's playing my game for me!"

Betty, for her part, refused to recognise a little pain that gnawed ather heart and stole all taste from the best dishes of Thirion's. Shetalked as much as possible to Temple, because it was the proper thingto do, she told herself, and she talked very badly. Lady St. Craye wastransfigured by Vernon's unexpected acceptance of her delicateadvances, intoxicated by the sudden flutter of a dream she had onlyknown with wings in full flight, into the region where dreams, claspedto the heart, become realities. She grew momently more beautiful. Thehost, going from table to table, talking easily to his guests, couldnot keep his fascinated eyes from her face. The proprietor ofThirion's had good taste, and knew a beautiful woman when he saw her. 

Betty's eyes, too, strayed more and more often from her plate, andfrom Temple to the efflorescence of this new beauty-light. She feltmean and poor, ill-dressed, shabby, dowdy, dull, weary anduninteresting. Her face felt tired. It was an effort to smile. 

When the dinner was over she said abruptly:

"If you'll excuse me--I've got a dreadful headache--no, I don't wantanyone to see me home. Just put me in a carriage. "

She insisted, and it was done. 

When the carriage drew up in front of the closed porte cochère of 57Boulevard Montparnasse, Betty was surprised and wounded to discoverthat she was crying. 

"Well, you _knew_ they were engaged!" she said as she let herself intoher room with her latchkey. "You knew they were engaged! What did youexpect?"

Temple could not remember afterwards exactly how he got separated fromthe others. It just happened, as such unimportant things will. Hemissed them somehow, at a crossing, looked about him in vain, shruggedhis shoulders and went home. 

Lady St. Craye hesitated a moment with her latchkey in her hand. Thenshe threw open the door of her flat. 

"Come in, won't you?" she said, and led the way into her fire-warm, flower-scented, lamplit room. Vernon also hesitated a moment. Then hefollowed. He stood on the hearth-rug with his back to the wood fire. He did not speak. 

Somehow it was difficult for her to take up their talk at the placeand in the strain where it had broken off when Betty proclaimed herheadache. 

Yet this was what she must do, it seemed to her, or lose all theground she had gained. 

"You've been very charming to me this evening, " she said at last, andknew as she said it that it was the wrong thing to say. 

"You flatter me, " said Vernon. 

"I was so surprised to see you there, " she went on. 

Vernon was surprised that she should say it. He had thought morehighly of her powers. 

"The pleasure was mine, " he said in his most banal tones, "thesurprise, alas, was all for you--and all you gained. "

"Weren't _you_ surprised?"--Lady St. Craye was angry and humiliated. That she--she--should find herself nervous, at fault, find herselfplaying the game as crudely as any shopgirl!

"No, " said Vernon. 

"But you couldn't have expected me?" She knew quite well what she wasdoing, but she was too nervous to stop herself. 

"I've always expected you, " he said deliberately, "ever since I toldyou that I often dined at Thirion's. "

"You expected me to--"

"To run after me?" said Vernon with paraded ingenuousness; "yes, didn't you?"

"_I_ run after _you_? You--" she stopped short, for she saw in hiseyes that, if she let him quarrel with her now, it was forever. 

He at the same moment awoke from the trance of anger that had comeupon him when he found himself alone with her; anger at her, and athimself, fanned to fury by the thought of Betty and of what she, atthis moment, must be thinking. He laughed:

"Ah, don't break my heart!" he said, "I've been so happy all theevening fancying that you had--you had--"

"Had what?" she asked with dry lips, for the caress in his tone wassuch as to deceive the very elect. 

"Had felt just the faintest little touch of interest in me. Had caredto know how I spent my evenings, and with whom!"

"You thought I could stoop to spy on you?" she asked. "Monsieurflatters himself. "

The anger in him was raising its head again. 

"Monsieur very seldom does, " he said. 

She took that as she chose to take it. 

"No, you're beautifully humble. "

"And you're proudly beautiful. "

She flushed and looked down. 

"Don't you like to be told that you're beautiful?"

"Not by you. Not like that!"

"And so you didn't come to Thirion's to see me? How one may deceiveoneself! The highest hopes we cherish here! Another beautiful illusiongone!"

She said to herself: "I can do nothing with him in this mood, " andaloud she could not help saying: "Was it a beautiful one?"

"Very, " he answered gaily. "Can you doubt it?"

She found nothing to say. And even as she fought for words shesuddenly found that he had caught her in his arms, and kissed her, andthat the sound of the door that had banged behind him was echoing inher ears. 

She put her hands to her head. She could not see clearly. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

INTERVENTIONS. 

That kiss gave Lady St. Craye furiously to think, as they say inFrance. 

Had it meant--? What had it meant? Was it the crown of her hopes, herdreams? Was it possible that now, at last, after all that had gonebefore, she might win him--had won him, even?

The sex-instinct said "No. "

Then, if "No" were the answer to that question, the kiss had been merebrutality. It had meant just:

"You chose to follow me--to play the spy. What the deuce do you want?Is it this? God knows you're welcome, " the kiss following. 

The kiss stung. It was not the first. But the others--even the last ofthem, two years before, had not had that sting. 

Lady St. Craye, biting her lips in lonely dissection of herself and ofhim, dared take no comfort. Also, she no longer dared to follow him, to watch him, to spy on him. 

In her jasmine-scented leisure Lady St. Craye analysed herself, andhim and Her. Above all Her--who was Betty. To find out how it allseemed to her--that, presently, seemed to Lady St. Craye the onepossible, the one important thing. So after she had given a few daysto the analysis of that kiss, had failed to reach certainty as to itselements, had writhed in her failure, and bitterly resented themysteries constituent that falsified all her calculations, she dressedherself beautifully, and went to call on the constituent, Betty. 

Betty was at home. She was drawing at a table, cunningly placed atright angles to the window. She rose with a grace that Lady St. Crayehad not seen in her. She was dressed in a plain gown, that hung fromthe shoulders in long, straight, green folds. Her hair was down. --AndBetty had beautiful hair. Lady St. Craye's hair had never been long. Betty's fell nearly to her knees. 

"Oh, was the door open?" she said. "I didn't know, I've--I'm sosorry--I've been washing my hair. "

"It's lovely, " said the other woman, with an appreciation quitegenuine. "What a pity you can't always wear it like that!"

"It's long, " said Betty disparagingly, "but the colour's horrid. WhatMiss Voscoe calls Boy colour. "

"Boy colour?"

"Oh, just nothing in particular. Mousy. "

"If you had golden hair, or black, Miss Desmond, you'd have a quiteunfair advantage over the rest of us. "

"I don't think so, " said Betty very simply; "you see, no one ever seesit down. "

"What a charming place you've got here, " Lady St. Craye went on. 

"Yes, " said Betty, "it is nice, " and she thought of Paula. 

"And do you live here all alone?"

"Yes: I had a friend with me at first, but she's gone back toEngland. "

"Don't you find it very dull?"

"Oh, no! I know lots of people now. "

"And they come to see you here?"

Lady St. Craye had decided that it was not necessary to go delicately. The girl was evidently stupid, and one need not pick one's words. 

"Yes, " said Betty. 

"Mr. Vernon's a great friend of yours, isn't he?"

"Yes. "

"I suppose you see a great deal of him?"

"Yes. Is there anything else you would like to know?"

The scratch was so sudden, so fierce, so feline that for a moment LadySt. Craye could only look blankly at her hostess. Then she recoveredherself enough to say:

"Oh, I'm so sorry! Was I asking a lot of questions? It's a dreadfulhabit of mine, I'm afraid, when I'm interested in people. "

Betty scratched again quite calmly and quite mercilessly. 

"It's quite natural that Mr. Vernon should interest you. But I don'tthink I'm likely to be able to tell you anything about him that youdon't know. May I get you some tea?"

It was impossible for Lady St. Craye to reply: "I meant that I wasinterested in _you_--not in Mr. Vernon;" so she said:

"Thank you--that will be delightful. "

Betty went along the little passage to her kitchen, and her visitorwas left to revise her impressions. 

When Betty came back with the tea-tray, her hair was twisted up. Thekettle could be heard hissing in the tiny kitchen. 

"Can't I help you?" Lady St. Craye asked, leaning back indolently inthe most comfortable chair. 

"No, thank you: it's all done now. "

[Illustration: "'No, thank you it's all done now'"]

Betty poured the tea for the other woman to drink. Her own remaineduntasted. She exerted herself to manufacture small-talk, was veryamiable, very attentive. Lady St. Craye almost thought she must havedreamed those two sharp cat-scratches at the beginning of theinterview. But presently Betty's polite remarks came less readily. There were longer intervals of silence. And Lady St. Craye for oncewas at a loss. Her nerve was gone. She dared not tempt the clawsagain. After the longest pause of all Betty said suddenly:

"I think I know why you came to-day. "

"I came to see you, because you're a friend of Mr. Vernon's. "

"You came to see me because you wanted to find out exactly how muchI'm a friend of Mr. Vernon's. Didn't you?"

Candour is the most disconcerting of the virtues. 

"Not in the least, " Lady St. Craye found herself saying. "I came tosee you--because--as I said. "

"I don't think it is much use your coming to see me, " Betty went on, "though, if you meant it kindly--But you didn't--you didn't! If youhad it wouldn't have made any difference. We should never get on witheach other, never. "

"Really, Miss Desmond"--Lady St. Craye clutched her card-case and halfrose--"I begin to think we never should. "

Betty's ignorance of the usages of good society stood her friend. Sheignored, not consciously, but by the prompting of nature, the sociallaw which decrees that one should not speak of things that reallyinterest one. 

"Do sit down, " she said. "I'm glad you came--because I know exactlywhat you mean, now. "

"If the knowledge were only mutual!" sighed Lady St. Craye, and foundcourage to raise eyebrows wearily. 

"You don't like my going about with Mr. Vernon. Well, you've only tosay so. Only when you're married you'll find you've got your work cutout to keep him from having any friends except you. "

Lady St. Craye had the best of reasons for believing this likely to bethe truth. She said:

"When I'm married?"

"Yes, " said Betty firmly. "You're jealous; you've no cause to be--andI tell you that because I think being jealous must hurt. But it wouldhave been nicer of you, if you'd come straight to me and said: 'Lookhere, I don't like you going about with the man I'm engaged to. ' Ishould have understood then and respected you. But to come like achild's Guide to Knowledge--"

The other woman was not listening. "Engaged to him!"--The words sangdeliciously, disquietingly in her ears. 

"But who said I was engaged to him?"

"He did, of course. He isn't ashamed of it--if you are. "

"He told you that!"

"Yes. Now aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

Country-bred Betty, braced by the straightforward directness of MissVoscoe, and full of the nervous energy engendered by a half-understoodtrouble, had routed, for a moment, the woman of the world. But onlyfor a moment. Then Lady St. Craye, unable to estimate the gain or lossof the encounter, pulled herself together to make good her retreat. 

"Yes, " she said, with her charming smile. "I am ashamed of myself. I_was_ jealous--I own it. But I shouldn't have shown it as I did if I'dknown the sort of girl you are. Come, forgive me! Can't youunderstand--and forgive?"

"It was all my fault. " The generosity of Betty hastened to meet whatit took to be the generosity of the other. "Forgive me. I won't seehim again at all--if you don't want me to. "

"No, no. " Even at that moment, in one illuminating flash, Lady St. Craye saw the explications that must follow the announcement of thatrenunciatory decision. "No, no. If you do that I shall feel sure thatyou don't forgive me for being so silly. Just let everything goon--won't you? And please, please don't tell him anything about--aboutto-day. "

"How could I?" asked Betty. 

"But promise you won't. You know--men are so vain. I should hate himto know"--she hesitated and then finished the sentence with fineart--"to know--how much I care. "

"Of course you care, " said Betty downrightly. "You ought to care. Itwould be horrid of you if you didn't. "

"But I don't, _now_. Now I _know_ you, Miss Desmond. I understand sowell--and I like to think of his being with you. "

Even to Betty's ears this did not ring quite true. 

"You like--?" she said. 

"I mean I quite understand now. I thought--I don't know what Ithought. You're so pretty, you know. And he has had so verymany--love-affairs. "

"He hasn't one with me, " said Betty briefly. 

"Ah, you're still angry. And no wonder. Do forgive me, Miss Desmond, and let's be friends. "

Betty's look as she gave her hand was doubtful. But the hand wasgiven. 

"And you'll keep my poor little secret?"

"I should have thought you would have been proud for him to know howmuch you care. "

"Ah, my dear, " Lady St. Craye became natural for an instant under thetransfiguring influence of her real thoughts as she spoke them, "mydear, don't believe it! When a man's sure of you he doesn't care anymore. It's while he's not quite sure that he cares. "

"I don't think that's so always, " said Betty. 

"Ah, believe me, there are 'more ways of killing a cat than choking itwith butter. ' Forgive the homely aphorism. When you have a lover ofyour own--or perhaps you have now?"

"Perhaps I have. " Betty stood on guard with a steady face. 

"Well, when you have--or if you have--remember never to let him bequite sure. It's the only way. "

The two parted, with a mutually kindly feeling that surprised one asmuch as the other. Lady St. Craye drove home contrasting bitterly theexcellence of her maxims with the ineptitude of her practice. She hadlet him know that she cared. And he had left her. That was two yearsago. And, now that she had met him again, when she might have playedthe part she had recommended to that chit with the long hair--the partshe knew to be the wise one--she had once more suffered passion toovercome wisdom, and had shown him that she loved him. And he hadkissed her. 

She blushed in the dusk of her carriage for the shame of that kiss. 

But he had told that girl that he was engaged to her. 

A delicious other flush replaced the blush of shame. Why should hehave done that unless he really meant--? In that case the kiss wasnothing to blush about. And yet it was. She knew it. 

She had time to think in the days that followed, days that broughtTemple more than once to her doors, but Vernon never. 

Betty left alone let down her damp hair and tried to resume herdrawing. But it would not do. The emotion of the interview was toorecent. Her heart was beating still with anger, and resentment, andother feelings less easily named. 

Vernon was to come to fetch her at seven. She would not face him. Lethim go and dine with the woman he belonged to!

Betty went out at half-past six. She would not go to Garnier's, nor toThirion's. That was where he would look for her. 

She walked steadily on, down the boulevard. She would dine at someplace she had never been to before. A sickening vision of that firstnight in Paris swam before her. She saw again the Café d'Harcourt, heard the voices of the women who had spoken to Paula, saw the eyes ofthe men who had been the companions of those women. In that rout theface of Temple shone--clear cut, severe. She remembered the instantresentment that had thrilled her at his protective attitude, remembered it and wondered at it a little. She would not have feltthat now. She knew her Paris better than she had done then. 

And with the thought, the face of Temple came towards her out of thecrowd. He raised his hat in response to her frigid bow, and had almostpassed her, when she spoke on an impulse that surprised herself. 

"Oh--Mr. Temple!"

He stopped and turned. 

"I was looking for a place to dine. I'm tired of Garnier's andThirion's. "

He hesitated. And he, too, remembered the night at the Caféd'Harcourt, when she had disdained his advice and gone back to takethe advice of Paula. 

He caught himself assuring himself that a man need not be ashamed torisk being snubbed--making a fool of himself even--if he could do anygood. So he said: "You know I have horrid old-fashioned ideas aboutwomen, " and stopped short. 

"Don't you know of any good quiet place near here?" said Betty. 

"I think women ought to be taken care of. But some of them--MissDesmond, I'm so afraid of you--I'm afraid of boring you--"

Remorse stirred her. 

"You've always been most awfully kind, " she said warmly. "I've oftenwanted to tell you that I'm sorry about that first time I saw you--I'mnot sorry for what I _did_, " she added in haste; "I can never beanything but glad for that. But I'm sorry I seemed ungrateful to you. "

"Now you give me courage, " he said. "I do know a quiet little placequite near here. And, as you haven't any of your friends with you, won't you take pity on me and let me dine with you?"

"You're sure you're not giving up some nice engagement--just to--to bekind to me?" she asked. And the forlornness of her tone made himalmost forget that he had half promised to join a party of Lady St. Craye's. 

"I should like to come with you--I should like it of all things, " hesaid; and he said it convincingly. 

They dined together, and the dinner was unexpectedly pleasant to bothof them. They talked of England, of wood, field and meadow, and Bettyfound herself talking to him of the garden at home and of the thingsthat grew there, as she had talked to Paula, and as she had nevertalked to Vernon. 

"It's so lovely all the year, " she said. "When the last mignonette'sover, there are the chrysanthemums, and then the Christmas roses, andever so early in January the winter aconite and the snow-drops, andthe violets under the south wall. And then the little green daffodilleaves come up and the buds, though it's weeks before they turn intoflowers. And if it's a mild winter the primroses--just little babyones--seem to go on all the time. "

"Yes, " he said, "I know. And the wallflowers, they're green all thetime. --And the monthly roses, they flower at Christmas. And then whenthe real roses begin to bud--and when June comes--and you're drunkwith the scent of red roses--the kind you always long for atChristmas. "

"Oh, yes, " said Betty--"do you feel like that too? And if you getthem, they're soft limp-stalked things, like caterpillars halfdisguised as roses by some incompetent fairy. Not like the stiff solidheavy velvet roses with thick green leaves and heaps of thorns. Thoseare the roses one longs for. "

"Yes, " he said. "Those are the roses one longs for. " And an odd pausepunctuated the sentence. 

But the pause did not last. There was so much to talk of--now thatbarrier of resentment, wattled with remorse, was broken down. It wasan odd revelation to each--the love of the other for certain authors, certain pictures, certain symphonies, certain dramas. The discovery ofthis sort of community of tastes is like the meeting in far foreigncountries of a man who speaks the tongue of one's mother land. The twolingered long over their coffee, and the "Grand Marnier" which theirliking for "The Garden of Lies" led to their ordering. Betty hadforgotten Vernon, forgotten Lady St. Craye, in the delightfulinterchange of:

"Oh, I do like--"

"And don't you like--?"

"And isn't that splendid?"

These simple sentences, interchanged, took on the value of intimateconfidences. 

"I've had such a jolly time, " Temple said. "I haven't had such a talkfor ages. "

And yet all the talk had been mere confessions of faith--in Ibsen, inBrowning, in Maeterlinck, in English gardens, in Art for Art's sake, and in Whistler and Beethoven. 

"I've liked it too, " said Betty. 

"And it's awfully jolly, " he went on, "to feel that you've forgivenme"--the speech suddenly became difficult, --at least I mean to say--"he ended lamely. 

"It's I who ought to be forgiven, " said Betty. "I'm very glad I metyou. I've enjoyed our talk ever so much. "

Vernon spent an empty evening, and waylaid Betty as she left her classnext day. 

"I'm sorry, " she said. "I couldn't help it. I suddenly felt I wantedsomething different. So I dined at a new place. "

"Alone?" said Vernon. 

"No, " said Betty with her chin in the air. 

Vernon digested, as best he might, his first mouthful ofjealousy--real downright sickening jealousy. The sensation astonishedhim so much that he lacked the courage to dissect it. 

"Will you dine with me to-night?" was all he found to say. 

"With pleasure, " said Betty. But it was not with pleasure that shedined. There was something between her and Vernon. Both felt it, andboth attributed it to the same cause. 

The three dinners that followed in the next fortnight brought none ofthat old lighthearted companionship which had been the gayest oftable-decorations. Something was gone--lost--as though a royal rosehad suddenly faded, a rainbow-coloured bubble had broken. 

"I'm glad, " said Betty; "if he's engaged, I don't want to feel happywith him. "

She did not feel happy without him. The Inward Monitor grew more andmore insistent. She caught herself wondering how Temple, with theserious face and the honest eyes, would regard the lies, thetrickeries, the whole tissue of deceit that had won her her chance offollowing her own art, of living her own life. 

Vernon understood, presently, that not even that evening at Thirion'scould give the key to this uncomforting change. He had not seen LadySt. Craye since the night of the kiss. 

It was after the fourth flat dinner with Betty that he said good-nightto her early and abruptly, and drove to Lady St. Craye's. 

She was alone. She rose to greet him, and he saw that her eyes weredark-rimmed, and her lips rough. 

"This is very nice of you, " she said. "It's nearly a month since I sawyou. "

"Yes, " he said. "I know it is. Do you remember the last time? Hasn'tthat taught you not to play with me?"

The kiss was explained now. Lady St. Craye shivered. 

"I don't know what you mean?" she said, feebly. 

"Oh, yes, you do! You're much too clever not to understand. Come tothink of it, you're much too everything--too clever, too beautiful, too charming, too everything. "

"You overwhelm me, " she made herself say. 

"Not at all. You know your points. What I want to know is just onething--and that's the thing you're going to tell me. "

She drew her dry lips inward to moisten them. 

"What do you want to know? Why do you speak to me like that? What haveI done?"

"That's what you're going to tell me. "

"I shall tell you nothing--while you ask in that tone. "

"Won't you? How can I persuade you?" his tone caressed and stung. "What arguments can I use? Must I kiss you again?"

She drew herself up, called wildly on all her powers to resent theinsult. Nothing came at her call. 

"What do you want me to tell you?" she asked, and her eyes imploredthe mercy she would not consciously have asked. 

He saw, and he came a little nearer to her--looking down at herupturned face with eyes before which her own fell. 

"You don't want another kiss?" he said. "Then tell me what you've beensaying to Miss Desmond. "

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE TRUTH. 

There was a silence. 

"Come, my pretty Jasmine lady, speak the truth. "

"I will: What a brute you are!"

"So another lady told me a few months ago. Come, tell me. "

"Why should I tell you anything?" She tried to touch her tone withscorn. 

"Because I choose. You thought you could play with me and fool me andtrick me out of what I mean to have--"

"What you mean to have?"

"Yes, what I mean to have. I mean to marry Miss Desmond--if she'llhave me. "

"_You_--mean to marry? Saul is among the prophets with a vengeance!"The scorn came naturally to her voice now. 

Vernon stood as if turned to stone. Nothing had ever astonished him somuch as those four words, spoken in his own voice, "I mean to marry. "He repeated them. "I mean to marry Miss Desmond, if she'll have me. And it's your doing. "

"Of course, " she shrugged her shoulders. "Naturally it would be. Won'tyou sit down? You look so uncomfortable. Those French tragedy sceneswith the hero hat in one hand and gloves in the other always seem tome so comic. "

That was her score, the first. He put down the hat and gloves and cametowards her. And as he came he hastily sketched his plan of action. When he reached her it was ready formed. His anger was always shortlived. It had died down and left him competent as ever to handle thescene. 

He took her hands, pushed her gently into a chair near the table, andsat down beside her with his elbows on the table and his head in hishands. 

"Forgive me, dear, " he said. "I was a brute. Forgive me--and help me. No one can help me but you. "

It was a master-stroke: and he had staked a good deal on it. The stakewas not lost. She found no words. 

"My dear, sweet Jasmine lady, " he said, "let me talk to you. Let metell you everything. I can talk to you as I can talk to no one else, because I know you're fond of me. You are fond of me--a little, aren'tyou--for the sake of old times?"

"Yes, " she said, "I am fond of you. "

"And you forgive me--you do forgive me for being such a brute? Ihardly knew what I was doing. "

"Yes, " she said, speaking as one speaks in dreams, "I forgive you. "

"Thank you, " he said humbly; "you were always generous. And you alwaysunderstand. "

"Wait--wait. I'll attend to you presently, " she was saying to herheart. "Yes, I know it's all over. I know the game's up. Let me pullthrough this without disgracing myself, and I'll let you hurt me asmuch as you like afterwards. "

"Tell me, " she said gently to Vernon, "tell me everything. "

He was silent, his face still hidden. He had cut the knot of animpossible situation and he was pausing to admire the cleverness ofthe stroke. In two minutes he had blotted out the last sixmonths--months in which he and she had been adversaries. He had thrownhimself on her mercy, and he had done wisely. Never, even in the dayswhen he had carefully taught himself to be in love with her, had heliked her so well as now, when she got up from her chair to come andlay her hand softly on his shoulder and to say:

"My poor boy, --but there's nothing for you to be unhappy about. Tellme all about it--from the very beginning. "

There was a luxurious temptation in the idea. It was not the firsttime, naturally, that Vernon had "told all about it" with asympathetic woman-hand on his shoulder. He knew the strategic value ofconfidences. But always he had made the confidences fit theoccasion--serve the end he had in view. Now, such end as had been inview was gained. He knew that it was only a matter of time now, beforeshe should tell him of her own accord, what he could never by anybrutality have forced her to tell. And the temptation to speak, foronce, the truth about himself was overmastering. It is a luxury onecan so very rarely afford. Most of us go the whole long life-waywithout tasting it. There was nothing to lose by speaking the truth. Moreover, he must say something, and why not the truth? So he said:

"It all comes of that confounded habit of mine of wanting to be inlove. "

"Yes, " she said, "you were always so anxious to be--weren't you? Andyou never were--till now. "

The echo of his hidden thought made it easier for him to go on. 

"It was at Long Barton, " he said, --"it's a little dead and alive placein Kent. I was painting that picture that you like--the one that's inthe Salon, and I was bored to death, and she walked straight into thecomposition in a pink gown that made her look like a La France rosethat has been rained on--you know the sort of pink-turning-to-mauve. "

"And it was love at first sight?" said she, and took away her hand. 

"Not it, " said Vernon, catching the hand and holding it; "it was justthe usual thing. I wanted it to be like all the others. "

"Like mine, " she said, looking down on him. 

"Nothing could be like _that_, " he had the grace to say, looking up ather: "that was only like the others in one thing--that it couldn'tlast. --What am I thinking of to let you stand there?"

He got up and led her to the divan. They sat down side by side. Shewanted to laugh, to sing, to scream. Here was he sitting by her like alover--holding her hand, the first time these two years, three yearsnearly--his voice tender as ever. And he was telling her about Her. 

"No, " he went on, burrowing his shoulder comfortably in the cushions, "it was just the ordinary outline sketch. But it was coming verynicely. She was beginning to be interested, and I had taught myselfalmost all that was needed--I didn't want to marry her; I didn't wantanything except those delicate delightful emotions that come beforeone is quite, quite sure that she--But you know. "

"Yes, " she said. "I know. "

"Then her father interfered, and vulgarized the whole thing. He's aparson--a weak little rat, but I was sorry for him. Then an aunt cameon the scene--a most gentlemanly lady, "--he laughed a little at therecollection, --"and I promised not to go out of my way to see Heragain. It was quite easy. The bloom was already brushed from theadventure. I finished the picture, and went to Brittany and forgot thewhole silly business. "

"There was some one in Brittany, of course?"

"Of course, " said he; "there always is. I had a delightful summer. Then in October, sitting at the Café de la Paix, I saw her pass. Itwas the same day I saw you. "

"Before or after you saw me?"

"After. "

"Then if I'd stopped--if I'd made you come for a drive then and there, you'd never have seen her?"

"That's so, " said Vernon; "and by Heaven I almost wish you had!"

The wish was a serpent in her heart. She said: "Go on. "

And he went on, and, warming to his subject, grew eloquent on theevents of the winter, his emotions, his surmises as to Betty'semotions, his slow awakening to the knowledge that now, for the firsttime--and so on and so forth. 

"You don't know how I tried to fall in love with you again, " he said, and kissed her hand. "You're prettier than she is, and cleverer and athousand times more adorable. But it's no good; it's a sort ofmadness. "

"You never were in love with me. "

"No: I don't think I was: but I was happier with you than I shall everbe with her for all that. Talk of the joy of love! Love hurts--hurtsdamnably. I beg your pardon. "

"Yes. I believe it's painful. Go on. "

He went on. He was enjoying himself, now, thoroughly. 

"And so, " the long tale ended, "when I found she had scruples aboutgoing about with me alone--because her father had suggested that I wasin love with her--I--I let her think that I was engaged to you. "

"That is too much!" she cried and would have risen: but he kept herhand fast. 

"Ah, don't be angry, " he pleaded. "You see, I knew you didn't careabout me a little bit: and I never thought you and she would comeacross each other. "

"So you knew all the time that I didn't care?" her self-respectclutched at the spar he threw out. 

"Of course. I'm not such a fool as to think--Ah, forgive me forletting her think that. It bought me all I cared to ask for of hertime. She's so young, so innocent--she thought it was quite all rightas long as I belonged to someone else, and couldn't make love to her. "

"And haven't you?"

"Never--never once--since the days at Long Barton when it had to be'made;' and even then I only made the very beginnings of it. Now--"

"I suppose you've been very, very happy?"

"Don't I tell you? I've never been so wretched in my life! I despisemyself. I've always made everything go as I wanted it to go. Now I'mlike a leaf in the wind--_Pauvre feuille desechée_, don't you know. And I hate it. And I hate her being here without anyone to look afterher. A hundred times I've had it on the tip of my pen to send thatdoddering old Underwood an anonymous letter, telling him all aboutit. "

"Underwood?"

"Her step-father. --Oh, I forgot--I didn't tell you. " He proceeded totell her Betty's secret, the death of Madame Gautier and Betty's bidfor freedom. 

"I see, " she said slowly. "Well, there's no great harm done. But Iwish you'd trusted me before. You wanted to know, at the beginning ofthis remarkable interview, " she laughed rather forlornly, "what I hadtold Miss Desmond. Well, I went to see her, and when she told me thatyou'd told her you were engaged to me, I--I just acted the jealous alittle bit. I thought I was helping you--playing up to you. I supposeI overdid it. I'm sorry. "

"The question is, " said he anxiously, "whether she'll forgive me forthat lie. She's most awfully straight, you know. "

"She seems to have lied herself, " Lady St. Craye could not helpsaying. 

"Ah, yes--but only to her father. "

"That hardly counts, you think?"

"It's not the same thing as lying to the person you love. I wish--Iwonder whether you'd mind if I never told her it was a lie? Couldn't Itell her that we were engaged but you've broken it off? That you foundyou liked Temple better, or something?"

She gasped before the sudden vision of the naked gigantic egotism of aman in love. 

"You can tell her what you like, " she said wearily: "a lie or two moreor less--what does it matter?"

"I don't want to lie to her, " said Vernon. "I hate to. But she'd neverunderstand the truth. "

"You think _I_ understand? It _is_ the truth you've been telling me?"

He laughed. "I don't think I ever told so much truth in all my life. "

"And you've thoroughly enjoyed it! You alway did enjoy newsensations!"

"Ah, don't sneer at me. You don't understand--not quite. Everything'schanged. I really do feel as though I'd been born again. The point ofview has shifted--and so suddenly, so completely. It's a new Heavenand a new earth. But the new earth's not comfortable, and I don'tsuppose I shall ever get the new Heaven. But you'll help me--you'lladvise me? Do you think I ought to tell her at once? You see, she's sodifferent from other girls--she's--"

"She isn't, " Lady St. Craye interrupted, "except that she's the oneyou love; she's not a bit different from other girls. No girl'sdifferent from other girls. "

"Ah, you don't know her, " he said. "You see, she's so young and braveand true and--what is it--Why--"

Lady St. Craye had rested her head against his coat-sleeve and he knewthat she was crying. 

"What is it? My dear, don't--you musn't cry. "

"I'm not. --At least I'm very tired. "

"Brute that I am!" he said with late compunction. "And I've beenworrying you with all my silly affairs. Cheer up, --and smile at mebefore I go! Of course you're tired!"

His hand on her soft hair held her head against his arm. 

"No, " she said suddenly, "it isn't that I'm tired, really. You've toldthe truth, --why shouldn't I?" Vernon instantly and deeply regrettedthe lapse. 

"You're really going to marry the girl? You mean it?"

"Yes. "

"Then I'll help you. I'll do everything I can for you. "

"You're a dear, " he said kindly. "You always were. "

"I'll be your true friend--oh, yes, I will! Because I love you, Eustace. I've always loved you--I always shall. It can't spoilanything now to tell you, because everything _is_ spoilt. She'll neverlove you like I do. Nobody ever will. "

"You're tired. I've bothered you. You're saying this justto--because--"

"I'm saying it because it's true. Why should you be the only one tospeak the truth? Oh, Eustace--when you pretended to think I didn'tcare, two years ago, I was too proud to speak the truth then. I'm notproud now any more. Go away. I wish I'd never seen you; I wish I'dnever been born. "

"Yes, dear, yes. I'll go" he said, and rose. She buried her face inthe cushion where his shoulder had been. 

He was looking round for his hat and gloves--more uncomfortable thanhe ever remembered to have been. 

As he reached the door she sprang up, and he heard the silken swish ofher gray gown coming towards him. 

"Say good-night, " she pleaded. "Oh, Eustace, kiss me again--kindly, not like last time. "

He met her half-way, took her in his arms and kissed her forehead verygently, very tenderly. 

"My dearest Jasmine lady, " he said, "it sounds an impertinence and Idaresay you won't believe it, but I was never so sorry in my life as Iam now. I'm a beast, and I don't deserve to live. Think what a beast Iam--and try to hate me. "

She, clung to him and laid her wet cheek against his. Then her lipsimplored his lips. There was a long silence. It was she--she wasalways glad of that--who at last found her courage, and drew back. 

"Good-bye, " she said. "I shall be quite sane to-morrow. And then I'llhelp you. "

When he got out into the street he looked at his watch. It was not yetten o'clock. He hailed a carriage. 

"Fifty-seven Boulevard Montparnasse, " he said. 

He could still feel Lady St. Craye's wet cheek against his own. Thedespairing passion of her last kisses had thrilled him through andthrough. 

He wanted to efface the mark of those kisses. He would not be hauntedall night by any lips but Betty's. 

He had never called at her rooms in the evening. He had been carefulfor her in that. Even now as he rang the bell he was careful, and whenthe latch clicked and the door was opened a cautious inch he wasready, as he entered, to call out, in passing the concierge's door notMiss Desmond's name, but the name of the Canadian artist who occupiedthe studio on the top floor. 

He went softly up the stairs and stood listening outside Betty's door. Then he knocked gently. No one answered. Nothing stirred inside. 

"She may be out, " he told himself. "I'll wait a bit. "

At the same time he tapped again; and this time beyond the doorsomething did stir. 

Then came Betty's voice:

"_Qui est la_?"

"It's me--Vernon. May I come in?"

A moment's pause. Then:

"No. You can't possibly. Is anything the matter?"

"No--oh, no, but I wanted so much to see you. May I come to-morrowearly?"

"You're sure there's nothing wrong? At home or anything? You haven'tcome to break anything to me?"

"No--no; it's only something I wanted to tell you. "

He began to feel a fool, with his guarded whispers through a lockeddoor. 

"Then come at twelve, " said Betty in the tones of finality. "Good-night. "

He heard an inner door close, and went slowly away. He walked a longway that night. It was not till he was back in his rooms and hadlighted his candle and wound up his watch that Lady St. Craye's kissesbegan to haunt him in good earnest, as he had known they would. 

 * * * * *

Lady St. Craye, left alone, dried her eyes and set to work, with heartstill beating wildly to look about her at the ruins of her world. 

The room was quiet with the horrible quiet of a death chamber. And yethis voice still echoed in it. Only a moment ago she had been in hisarms, as she had never hoped to be again--more--as she had never beenbefore. 

"He would have loved me now, " she told herself, "if it hadn't been forthat girl. He didn't love me before. He was only playing at love. Hedidn't know what love was. But he knows now. And it's all too late!"

But was it?

A word to Betty--and--

"But you promised to help him. "

"That was before he kissed me. "

"But a promise is a promise. "

"Yes, --and your life's your life. You'll never have another. "

She stood still, her hands hanging by her sides--clenched hands thatthe rings bit into. 

"He will go to her early to-morrow. And she'll accept him, of course. She's never seen anyone else, the little fool. "

She knew that she herself would have taken him, would have chosen himas the chief among ten thousand. 

"She could have Temple. She'd be much happier with Temple. She andEustace would make each other wretched. She'd never understand him, and he'd be tired of her in a week. "

She had turned up the electric lights now, at her toilet table, andwas pulling the pins out of her ruffled hair. 

"And he'd never care about her children. And they'd be ugly littlehorrors. "

She was twisting her hair up quickly and firmly. 

"I _have_ a right to live my own life, " she said, just as Betty hadsaid six months before. "Why am I to sacrifice everything toher--especially when I don't suppose she cares--and now that I know Icould get him if she were out of the way?"

She looked at herself in the silver-framed mirror and laughed. 

"And you always thought yourself a proud woman!"

Suddenly she dropped the brush; it rattled and spun on the polishedfloor. 

She stamped her foot. 

"That settles it!" she said. For in that instant she perceived quiteclearly and without mistake that Vernon's attitude had been aparti-pris: that he had thrown, himself on her pity of set purpose, with an end to gain. 

"Laughing at me all the time too, of course! And I thought Iunderstood him. Well, I don't misunderstand him for long, anyway, " shesaid, and picked up the hair brush. 

"You silly fool, " she said to the woman in the glass. 

And now she was fully dressed--in long light coat and a hat with, asusual, violets in it. She paused a moment before her writing-table, turned up its light, turned it down again. 

"No, " she said, "one doesn't write anonymous letters. Besides it wouldbe too late. He'll see her to-morrow early--early. "

The door of the flat banged behind her as it had banged behind Vernonhalf an hour before. Like him, she called a carriage, and on her lipstoo, as the chill April air caressed them, was the sense of kisses. 

And she, too, gave to the coachman the address:

Fifty-seven Boulevard Montparnasse. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE TRUTH WITH A VENGEANCE. 

In those three weeks whose meetings with Vernon had been so lacking incharm there had been other meetings for Betty, and in these charm hadnot been to seek. But it was the charm of restful, pleasantcompanionship illuminated by a growing certainty that Mr. Templeadmired her very much, that he liked her very much, that he did notthink her untidy and countrified and ill-dressed, and all the thingsshe had felt herself to be that night when Lady St. Craye and her furshad rustled up the staircase at Thirion's. And she had dined with Mr. Temple and lunched with Mr. Temple, and there had been an afternoon atSt. Cloud, and a day at Versailles. Miss Voscoe and some of the otherstudents had been in the party, but not of it as far as Betty wasconcerned. She had talked to Temple all the time. 

"I'm glad to see you've taken my advice, " said Miss Voscoe, "only youdo go at things so--like a bull at a gate. A month ago it was all thatruffian Vernon. Now it's all Mr. Go-to-Hell. Why not have a change?Try a Pole or a German. "

But Betty declined to try a Pole or a German. 

What she wanted to do was to persuade herself that she liked Temple asmuch as she liked Vernon, and, further, that she did not care a strawfor either. 

Of course it is very wrong indeed to talk pleasantly with a young manwhen you think you know that he might, just possibly, be falling inlove with you. But then it is very interesting, too. To be loved, evenby the wrong person, seems in youth's selfish eyes to light up theworld as the candle lights the Japanese lantern. And besides, afterall, one can't be sure. And it is not maidenly to say "No, " even bythe vaguest movements of retreat, to a question that has not beenasked and perhaps never will be. 

And when she was talking to Temple she was not thinking so much ofVernon, and of her unselfish friendship for him, and the depth of herhope that he really _would_ be happy with that woman. 

So that it was with quite a sick feeling that her days had been robbedof something that made them easier to live, if not quite worth living, that she read and reread the letter that she found waiting for herafter that last unsuccessful dinner with the man whom Temple helpedher to forget. 

You will see by the letter what progress friendship can make in amonth between a young man and woman, even when each is half in lovewith some one else. 

 "Sweet friend, " said the letter: "This is to say good-bye for a little while. But you will think of me when I am away, won't you? I am going into the country to make some sketches and to think. I don't believe it is possible for English people to think in Paris. And I have things to think over that won't let themselves be thought over quietly here. And I want to see the Spring. I won't ask you to write to me, because I want to be quite alone, and not to have even a word from my sweet and dear friend. I hope your work will go well. 

 "Yours, "Robert Temple. "

Betty, in bed, was re-reading this when Vernon's knock came at herdoor. She spoke to him through the door with the letter in her hand. And her real thought when she asked him if he had come to break badnews was that something had happened to Temple. 

She went back to bed, but not to sleep. Try as she would, she couldnot keep away the wonder--what could Vernon have had to say thatwanted so badly to get itself said? She hid her eyes and would notlook in the face of her hope. There had been a tone in his voice as hewhispered on the other side of that stupid door, a tone she had notheard since Long Barton. 

Oh, why had she gone to bed early that night of all nights? She wouldnever go to bed early again as long as she lived!

What?--No, impossible! Yes. Another knock at her door. She sprang outof bed, and stood listening. There was no doubt about it. Vernon hadcome back. After all what he had to say would not keep till morning. Awild idea of dressing and letting him in was sternly dismissed. Forone thing, at topmost speed, it took twenty minutes to dress. He wouldnot wait twenty minutes. Another knock. 

She threw on her dressing gown and ran along her little passage--andstooped to the key-hole just as another tap, discreet but insistent, rang on the door panel. 

"Go away, " she said low and earnestly. "I can't talk to you to-night_whatever it is_. It must wait till the morning. "

"It's I, " said the very last voice in all Paris that she expected tohear, "it's Lady St. Craye. --Won't you let me in?"

"Are you alone?" said Betty. 

"Of course I'm alone. It's most important. Do open the door. "

The door was slowly opened. The visitor rustled through, and Bettyshut the door. Then she followed Lady St. Craye into the sitting-room, lighted the lamp, drew the curtain across the clear April night, andstood looking enquiry--and not looking it kindly. Her lips were set ina hard line and she was frowning. 

She waited for the other to speak, but after all it was she who brokethe silence. 

"Well, " she said, "what do you want now?"

"I hardly know how to begin, " said Lady St. Craye with great truth. 

"I should think not!" said Betty. "I don't want to be disagreeable, but I can't think of anything that gives you the right to come andknock me up like this in the middle of the night. "

"It's only just past eleven, " said Lady St. Craye. And there wasanother silence. She did not know what to say. A dozen openingssuggested themselves, and were instantly rejected. Then, quitesuddenly, she knew exactly what to say, what to do. That move ofVernon's--it was a good one, a move too often neglected in thiscynical world, but always successful on the stage. 

"May I sit down?" she asked forlornly. 

Betty, rather roughly, pushed forward a chair. 

Lady St. Craye sank into it, looked full at Betty for a long minute;and by the lamp's yellow light Betty saw the tears rise, brim over andfall from the other woman's lashes. Then Lady St. Craye pulled out herhandkerchief and began to cry in good earnest. 

It was quite easy. 

At first Betty looked on in cold contempt. Lady St. Craye had countedon that: she let herself go, wholly. If it ended in hysterics so muchthe more impressive. She thought of Vernon, of all the hopes of thesemonths, of the downfall of them--everything that should make itimpossible for her to stop crying. 

"Don't distress yourself, " said Betty, very chill and distant. 

"Can you--can you lend me a handkerchief?" said the otherunexpectedly, screwing up her own drenched cambric in her hand. 

Betty fetched a handkerchief. 

"I haven't any scent, " she said. "I'm sorry. "

That nearly dried the tears--but not quite: Lady St. Craye was apersevering woman. 

Betty watching her, slowly melted, just as the other knew she would. She put her hand at last on the shoulder of the light coat. 

"Come, " she said, "don't cry so. I'm sure there's nothing to be soupset about--"

Then came to her sharp as any knife, the thought of what there mightbe. 

"There's nothing wrong with anyone? There hasn't been an accident oranything?"

The other, still speechless, conveyed "No. "

"Don't, " said Betty again. And slowly and very artistically the floodwas abated. Lady St. Craye was almost calm, though still her breathcaught now and then in little broken sighs. 

"I _am_ so sorry, " she said, "so ashamed. --Breaking down like this. You don't know what it is to be as unhappy as I am. "

Betty thought she did. We all think we do, in the presence of anygrief not our own. 

"Can I do anything?" She spoke much more kindly than she had expectedto speak. 

"Will you let me tell you everything? The whole truth?"

"Of course if you want to, but--"

"Then do sit down--and oh, don't be angry with me, I am so wretched. Just now you thought something had happened to Mr. Vernon. Will youjust tell me one thing?--Do you love him?"

"You've no right to ask me that. "

"I know I haven't. Well, I'll trust you--though you don't trust me. I'll tell you everything. Two years ago Mr. Vernon and I wereengaged. "

This was not true; but it took less time to tell than the truth wouldhave taken, and sounded better. 

"We were engaged, and I was very fond of him. But he--you know what heis about Women?"

"No, " said Betty steadily. "I don't want to hear anything about him. "

"But you must. --He is--I don't know how to put it. There's always somewoman besides the One with him. I understand that now; I didn't then. I don't think he can help it. It's his temperament. "

"I see, " said Betty evenly. Her hands and feet were very cold. She wasastonished to find how little moved she was in this interview whoseend she foresaw so very plainly. 

"Yes, and there was a girl at that time--he was always about with her. And I made him scenes--always a most stupid thing to do with a man, you know; and at last I said he must give her up, or give me up. Andhe gave me up. And I was too proud to let him think I cared--and justto show him how little I cared I married Sir Harry St. Craye. I mightjust as well have let it alone. He never even heard I had been marriedtill last October! And then it was I who told him. My husband was abrute, and I'm thankful to say he didn't live long. You're very muchshocked, I'm afraid?"

"Not at all, " said Betty, who was, rather. 

"Well, then I met Him again, and we got engaged again, as he told you. And again there was a girl--oh, and another woman besides. But thistime I tried to bear it--you know I did try not to be jealous of you. "

"You had no cause, " said Betty. 

"Well, I thought I had. That hurts just as much. And what's the end ofit all--all my patience and trying not to see things, and letting himhave his own way? He came to me to-night and begged me to release himfrom his engagement, because--oh, he was beautifully candid--becausehe meant to marry you. "

Betty's heart gave a jump. 

"He seems to have been very sure of me, " she said loftily. 

"No, no; he's not a hairdresser's apprentice--to tell one woman thathe's sure of another. He said: 'I mean to marry Miss Desmond if she'llhave me. '"

"How kind of him!"

"I wish you'd heard the way he spoke of you. "

"I don't want to hear. "

"_I_ had to. And I've released him. And now I've come to you. I wasproud two years ago. I'm not proud now. I don't care what I do. I'llkneel down at your feet and pray to you as if you were God not to takehim away from me. And if you love him it'll all be no good. I knowthat. "

"But--supposing I weren't here--do you think you could get him back?"

"I know I could. Unless of course you were to tell him I'd been hereto-night. I should have no chance after that--naturally. I wish I knewwhat to say to you. You're very young; you'll find someone else, abetter man. He's not a good man. There's a girl at Montmartre at thisvery moment--a girl he's set up in a restaurant. He goes to see her. You'd never stand that sort of thing. I know the sort of girl you are. And you're quite right. But I've got beyond that. I don't care what heis, I don't care what he does. I understand him. I can make allowancesfor him. I'm his real mate. I could make him happy. You neverwould--you're too good. Ever since I first met him I've thought ofnothing else, cared for nothing else. If he whistled to me I'd give upeverything else, everything, and follow him barefoot round the world. "

"I heard someone say that in a play once, " said Betty musing. 

"So did I, " said Lady St. Craye very sharply--"but it's true for allthat. Well--you can do as you like. "

"Of course I can, " said Betty. 

"I've done all I can now. I've said everything there is to say. And ifyou love him as I love him every word I've said won't make a scrap ofdifference. I know that well enough. What I want to know is--_do_ youlove him?"

The scene had been set deliberately. But the passion that spoke in itwas not assumed. Betty felt young, school-girlish, awkward in thepresence of this love--so different from her own timid dreams. Theemotion of the other woman had softened her. 

"I don't know, " she said. 

"If you don't know, you don't love him. --At least don't see him tillyou're sure. You'll do that? As long as he's not married to anyone, there's just a chance that he may love me again. Won't you have pity?Won't you go away like that sensible young man Temple? Mr. Vernon toldme he was going into the country to decide which of the two women helikes best is the one he really likes best! Won't you do that?"

"Yes, " said Betty slowly, "I'll do that. _Look_ here, I am mostawfully sorry, but I don't know--I can't think to-night. I'll go rightaway--I won't see him to-morrow. Oh, no. I can't come between you andthe man you're engaged to, " her thoughts were clearing themselves asshe spoke. "Of course I knew you were engaged to him. But I neverthought. At least--Yes. I'll go away the first thing to-morrow. "

"You are very, very good, " said Lady St. Craye, and she meant it. 

"But I don't know where to go. Tell me where to go. "

"Can't you go home?"

"No: I won't. That's too much. "

"Go somewhere and sketch. "

"Yes, --but _where_?" said poor Betty impatiently. 

"Go to Grez, " said the other, not without second thoughts. "It's alovely place--close to Fontainebleau--Hotel Chevillon. I'll write itdown for you. --Old Madame Chevillon's a darling. She'll look afteryou. It _is_ good of you to forgive me for everything. I'm afraid Iwas a cat to you. "

"No, " said Betty, "it was right and brave of you to tell me the wholetruth. Oh, truth's the only thing that's any good!"

Lady St. Craye also thought it a useful thing--in moderation. Sherose. 

"I'll never forget what you're doing for me, " she said. "You're a girlin thousand. Look here, my dear: I'm not blind. Don't think I don'tvalue what you're doing. You cared for him in England a little, --andyou care a little now. And everything I've said tonight has hurt youhatefully. And you didn't know you cared. You thought it wasfriendship, didn't you--till you thought I'd come to tell you thatsomething had happened to him. And then you _knew_. I'm going toaccept your sacrifice. I've got to. I can't live if I don't. But Idon't want you to think I don't know what a sacrifice it is. I knowbetter than you do--at this moment. No--don't say anything. I don'twant to force your confidence. But I do understand. "

"I wish everything was different, " said Betty. 

"Yes. You're thinking, aren't you, that if it hadn't been for Mr. Vernon you'd rather have liked me? And I know now that if it hadn'tbeen for him I should have been very fond of you. And even as it is--"

She put her arms round Betty and spoke close to her ear. 

"You're doing more for me than anyone has ever done for me in mylife, " she said--"more than I'd do for you or any woman. And I loveyou for it. Dear brave little girl. I hope it isn't going to hurt verybadly. I love you for it--and I'll never forget it to the day I die. Kiss me and try to forgive me. "

The two clung together for an instant. 

"Good-bye, " said Lady St. Craye in quite a different voice. "I'm sorryI made a scene. But, really, sometimes I believe one isn't quite sane. Let me write the Grez address. I wish I could think of any set ofcircumstances in which you'd be pleased to see me again. "

"I'll pack to-night, " said Betty. "I hope _you'll_ be happy anyway. Doyou know I think I have been hating you rather badly without quiteknowing it. "

"Of course you have, " said the other heartily, "but you don't now. Ofcourse you won't leave your address here? If you do that you might aswell not go away at all!"

"I'm not quite a fool, " said Betty. 

"No, " said the other with a sigh, "it's I that am the fool. You're--No, I won't say what you are. But--Well. Good night, dear. Trynot to hate me again when you come to think it all over quietly. "

CHAPTER XX. 

WAKING-UP TIME. 

 Dear Mr. Vernon. This is to thank you very much for all your help and criticism of my work, and to say good-bye. I am called away quite suddenly, so I can't thank you in person, but I shall never forget your kindness. Please remember me to Lady St. Craye. I suppose you will be married quite soon now. And I am sure you will both be very happy. 

 Yours very sincerely, Elizabeth Desmond. 

This was the letter that Vernon read standing in the shadow of thearch by the concierge's window. The concierge had hailed him as hehurried through to climb the wide shallow stairs and to keep hisappointment with Betty when she should leave the atelier. 

"But yes, Mademoiselle had departed this morning at nine o'clock. Towhich station? To the Gare St. Lazare. Yes--Mademoiselle had chargedher to remit the billet to Monsieur. No, Mademoiselle had not left anyaddress. But perhaps chez Madame Bianchi?"

But chez Madame Bianchi there was no further news. The so amiableMademoiselle Desmond had paid her account, had embraced Madame, and--Voila! she was gone. One divined that she had been calledsuddenly to return to the family roof. A sudden illness of Monsieurher father without doubt. 

Could some faint jasmine memory have lingered on the staircase? Or wasit some subtler echo of Lady St. Craye's personality that clung there?Abruptly, as he passed Betty's door, the suspicion stung him. Had theJasmine lady had any hand in this sudden departure?

"Pooh--nonsense!" he said. But all the same he paused at theconcierge's window. 

"I am desolated to have deranged Madame, "--gold coin changedhands. --"A lady came to see Mademoiselle this morning, is it not?"

"No, no lady had visited Mademoiselle to-day: no one at all ineffect. "

"Nor last night--very late?"

"No, monsieur, " the woman answered meaningly; "no visitor came in lastnight except Monsieur himself and he came, not to see Mademoiselle, that understands itself, but to see Monsieur Beauchèsne an troisième. No--I am quite sure--I never deceive myself. And Mademoiselle has hadno letters since three days. Thanks a thousand times, Monsieur. Goodmorning. "

She locked up the gold piece in the little drawer where already laythe hundred franc note that Lady St. Craye had given her at sixo'clock that morning. 

"And there'll be another fifty from her next month, " she chuckled. "The good God be blessed for intrigues! Without intrigues what wouldbecome of us poor concierges?"

For Vernon Paris was empty--the spring sunshine positivelydistasteful. He did what he could; he enquired at the Gare St. Lazare, describing Betty with careful detail that brought smiles to the lipsof the employés. He would not call on Miss Voscoe. He made himselfwait till the Sketch Club afternoon--made himself wait, indeed, tillall the sketches were criticised--till the last cup of tea wasswallowed, or left to cool--the last cake munched--the last student'sfootfall had died away on the stairs, and he and Miss Voscoe werealone among the scattered tea-cups, blackened bread-crumbs and tornpaper. 

Then he put his question. Miss Voscoe knew nothing. Guessed MissDesmond knew her own business best. 

"But she's so young, " said Vernon; "anything might have happened toher. "

"I reckon she's safe enough--where she is, " said Miss Voscoe withintention. 

"But haven't you any idea why she's gone?" he asked, not at allexpecting any answer but "Not the least. "

But Miss Voscoe said:

"I have a quite first-class idea and so have you. "

He could but beg her pardon interrogatively. 

"Oh, you know well enough, " said she. "She'd got to go. And it was upto her to do it right now, I guess. "

Vernon had to ask why. 

"Well, you being engaged to another girl, don't you surmise it mightkind of come home to her there were healthier spots for you than theend of her apron strings? Maybe she thought the other lady's apronstrings 'ud be suffering for a little show?"

"I'm not engaged, " said Vernon shortly. 

"Then it's time you were, " the answer came with equal shortness. "You'll pardon me making this a heart-to-heart talk--and anyway it'sno funeral of mine. But she's the loveliest girl and I right down likeher. So you take it from me. That F. F. V. Lady with the violets--Oh, don't pretend you don't know who I mean--the one you're always aboutwith when you aren't with Betty. _She's_ your ticket. Betty's not. Your friend's her style. You pass, this hand, and give the girl achance. "

"I really don't understand--"

"I bet you do, " she interrupted with conviction. "I've sized you upright enough, Mr. Vernon. You're no fool. If you've discontinued yourengagement Betty doesn't know it. Nor she shan't from me. And one ofthese next days it'll be borne in on your friend that she's _the_ girlof his life--and when he meets her again he'll get her to see it hisway. Don't you spoil the day's fishing. "

Vernon laughed. 

"You have all the imagination of the greatest nation in the world, Miss Voscoe, " he said. "Thank you. These straight talks to young menare the salt of life. Good-bye. "

"You haven't all the obfuscation of the stupidest nation in theworld, " she retorted. "If you had had you'd have had a chance to findout what straight talking means--which it's my belief you never haveyet. Good-bye. You take my tip. Either you go back to where you werebefore you sighted Betty, or if the other one's sick of you too, justshuffle the cards, take a fresh deal and start fair. You go home andspend a quiet evening and think it all over. "

Vernon went off laughing, and wondering why he didn't hate MissVoscoe. He did not laugh long. He sat in his studio, musing tillit was too late to go out to dine. Then he found some biscuitsand sherry--remnants of preparations for the call of a picturedealer--ate and drank, and spent the evening in the way recommendedby Miss Voscoe. He lay face downward on the divan, in the dark, andhe did "think it all over. "

But first there was the long time when he lay quite still--did notthink at all, only remembered her hands and her eyes and her hair, andthe pretty way her brows lifted when she was surprised orperplexed--and the four sudden sweet dimples that came near thecorners of her mouth when she was amused, and the way her mouthdrooped when she was tired. 

"I want you. I want you. I want you, " said the man who had been theAmorist. "I want you, dear!"

When he did begin to think, he moved uneasily in the dark as thoughtafter thought crept out and stung him and slunk away. The verses hehad written at Long Barton--ironic verses, written with the tongue inthe cheek--came back with the force of iron truth:

 "I love you to my heart's hid core: Those other loves? How can one learn From marshlights how the great fires burn? Ah, no--I never loved before!"

He had smiled at Temple's confidences--when Betty was at hand--to bewatched and guarded. Now Betty was away--anywhere. And Temple wasdeciding whether it was she whom he loved. Suppose he did decide thatit was she, and, as Miss Voscoe had said, made her see it? "Damn, "said Vernon, "Oh, damn!"

He was beginning to be a connoisseur in the fine flavours of thedifferent brands of jealousy. Anyway there was food for thought. 

There was food for little else, in the days that followed. Mr. Vernon's heart, hungry for the first time, had to starve. He wentoften to Lady St. Craye's. She was so gentle, sweet, yet not toosympathetic--bright, amusing even, but not too vivacious. He approveddeeply the delicacy with which she ignored that last wild interview. She was sister, she was friend--and she had the rare merit of seemingto forget that she had been confidante. 

It was he who re-opened the subject, after ten days. She had toldherself that it was only a question of time. And it was. 

"Do you know she's disappeared?" he said abruptly. 

"_Disappeared_?" No one was ever more astonished than Lady St. Craye. Quite natural, the astonishment. Not overdone by so much as a hair'sbreadth. 

So he told her all about it, and she twisted her long topaz chain andlistened with exactly the right shade of interest. He told her whatMiss Voscoe had said--at least most of it. 

"And I worry about Temple, " he said; "like any school boy, I worry. Ifhe _does_ decide that he loves her better than you--You said you'dhelp me. Can't you make sure that he won't love her better?"

"I could, I suppose, " she admitted. To herself she said: "Temple's atGrez. _She's_ at Grez. They've been there ten days. "

"If only you would, " he said. "It's too much to ask, I know. But Ican't ask anything that isn't too much! And you're so much more nobleand generous than other people--"

"No butter, thanks, " she said. 

"It's the best butter, " he earnestly urged. "I mean that I mean it. Won't you?"

"When I see him again--but it's not very fair to him, is it?"

"He's an awfully good chap, you know, " said Vernon innocently. Andonce more Lady St. Craye bowed before the sublime apparition of theEgoism of Man. 

"Good enough for me, you think? Well, perhaps you're right. He's adear boy. One would feel very safe if one loved a man like that. "

"Yes--wouldn't one?" said Vernon. 

She wondered whether Betty was feeling safe. No: ten days are a longtime, especially in the country--but it would take longer than that tocure even a little imbecile like Betty of the Vernon habit. It wasworse than opium. Who ought to know if not she who sat, calm andsympathetic, promising to entangle Temple so as to leave Betty free tobecome a hopeless prey to the fell disease?

Quite suddenly and to her own intense surprise, she laughed out loud. 

"What is it?" his alert vanity bristled in the query. 

"It's nothing--only everything! Life's so futile! We pat and pinch ourlittle bit of clay, and look at it and love it and think it's going tobe a masterpiece. --and then God glances at it--and He doesn't likethe modelling, and He sticks his thumb down, and the whole thing'sbroken up, and there's nothing left to do but throw away the bits. "

"Oh, no, " said Vernon; "everything's bound to come right in the end. It all works out straight somehow. "

She laughed again. 

"Optimism--from you?"

"It's not optimism, " he asserted eagerly, "it's only--well, ifeverything doesn't come right somehow, somewhere, some day, what didHe bother to make the world for?"

"That's exactly what I said, my dear, " said she. She permitted herselfthe little endearment now and then with an ironical inflection, as onefearful of being robbed might show a diamond pretending that it waspaste. 

"You think He made it for a joke?"

"If He did it's a joke in the worst possible taste, " said she, "but Isee your point of view. There can't be so very much wrong with a worldthat has Her in it, --and you--and possibilities. "

"Do you know, " he said slowly, "I'm not at all sure that--Do youremember the chap in Jane Eyre?--he knew quite well that that Rosamundgirl wouldn't make him the wife he wanted. Yet he wanted nothing else. I don't want anything but her; and it doesn't make a scrap ofdifference that I know exactly what sort of fool I am. "

"A knowledge of anatomy doesn't keep a broken bone from hurting, " saidshe, "and all even you know about love won't keep off the heartache. Icould have told you that long ago. "

"I know I'm a fool, " he said, "but I can't help it. Sometimes I thinkI wouldn't help it if I could. "

"I know, " she said, and something in her voice touched the trainedsensibilities of the Amorist. He stooped to kiss the hand that teasedthe topazes. 

"Dear Jasmine Lady, " he said, "my optimism doesn't keep its colourlong, does it? Give me some tea, won't you? There's nothing sowearing as emotion. "

She gave him tea. 

"It's a sort of judgment on you, though, " was what she gave him withhis first cup: "you've dealt out this very thing to so manywomen, --and now it's come home to roost. "

"I didn't know what a fearful wildfowl it was, " he answered smiling. "I swear I didn't. I begin to think I never knew anything at allbefore. "

"And yet they say Love's blind. "

"And so he is! That's just it. My exotic flower of optimism withers atyour feet. It's all exactly the muddle you say it is. Pray Heaven fora clear way out! Meantime thank whatever gods may be--I've got _you_. "

"Monsieur's confidante is always at his distinguished service, " shesaid. And thus sealed the fountain of confidences for that day. 

But it broke forth again and again in the days that came after. Fornow he saw her almost every day. And for her, to be with him, to knowthat she had of him more of everything, save the heart, than any otherwoman, spelled something wonderfully like happiness. More like it thanshe had the art to spell in any other letters. 

Vernon still went twice a week to the sketch-club. To have stayed awaywould have been to confess, to the whole alert and interested class, that he had only gone there for the sake of Betty. 

Those afternoons were seasons of salutary torture. 

He tried very hard to work, but, though he still remembered how apaint brush should be handled, there seemed no good reason for usingone. He had always found his planned and cultivated emotions stronglyuseful in forwarding his work. This undesired unrest mocked at work, and at all the things that had made up the solid fabric of one's days. The ways of love--he had called it love; it was a name likeanother--had merely been a sort of dram-drinking. Such love was theintoxicant necessary to transfigure life to the point where allthings, even work, look beautiful. Now he tasted the real draught. Itflooded his veins like fire and stung like poison. And it made work, and all things else, look mean and poor and unimportant. 

"I want you--I want you--I want you, " said Vernon to the vision withthe pretty kitten face, and the large gray eyes. "I want you more thaneverything in the world, " he said, "everything in the world puttogether. Oh, come back to me--dear, dear, dear. "

He was haunted without cease by the little poem he had written when hewas training himself to be in love with Betty:

 "I love you to my heart's hid core: Those other loves? How should one learn From marshlights how the great fires burn? Ah, no--I never loved before!"

"Prophetic, I suppose, " he said, "though God knows I never meant it. Any fool of a prophet must hit the bull's eye at least once in a life. But there was a curious unanimity of prophecy about this. The auntwarned me; that Conway woman warned me; the Jasmine Lady warned me. And now it's happened, " he told himself. "And I who thought I knew allabout everything!"

Miss Conway's name, moving through his thoughts, left the trail of anew hope. 

Next day he breakfasted at Montmartre. 

The neatest little Crémerie; white paint, green walls stenciled withfat white geraniums. On each small table a vase of green Bruges wareor Breton pottery holding not a crushed crowded bouquet, but onesingle flower--a pink tulip, a pink carnation, a pink rose. On thedesk from behind which the Proprietress ruled her staff, enormous pinkpeonies in a tall pot of Grez de Flandre. 

Behind the desk Paula Conway, incredibly neat and business-like, herblack hair severely braided, her plain black gown fitting a figuregrown lean as any grey-hound's, her lace collar a marvel of finelaundry work. 

Dapper-waisted waitresses in black, with white aprons, served thecustomers. Vernon was served by Madame herself. The clientele formedits own opinion of the cause of this, her only such condescension. 

"Well, and how's trade?" he asked over his asparagus. 

"Trade's beautiful, " Paula answered, with the frank smile that Bettyhad seen, only once or twice, and had loved very much: "if trade willonly go on behaving like this for another six weeks my cruel creditorwill be paid every penny of the money that launched me. "

Her eyes dwelt on him with candid affection. 

"Your cruel creditor's not in any hurry, " he said. "By the way, Isuppose you've not heard anything of Miss Desmond?"

"How could I? You know you made me write that she wasn't to write. "

"I didn't _make_ you write anything. "

"You approved. But anyway she hasn't my address. Why?"

"She's gone away: and she also has left no address. "

"You don't think?--Oh, no--nothing _could_ have happened to her!"

"No, no, " he hastened to say. "I expect her father sent for her, orfetched her. "

"The best thing too, " said Paula. "I always wondered he let her come. "

"Yes, "--Vernon remembered how little Paula knew. 

"Oh, yes, she's probably gone home. "

"Look here, " said Miss Conway very earnestly; "there wasn't any lovebusiness between you and her, was there?"

"No, " he answered strongly. 

"I was always afraid of that. Do you know--if you don't mind, whenI've really paid my cruel creditor everything, I should like to writeand tell her what he's done for me. I should like her to know that shereally _did_ save me--and how. Because if it hadn't been for her you'dnever have thought of helping me. Do you think I might?"

"It could do no harm, " said Vernon after a silent moment. "You'dreally like her to know you're all right. You _are_ all right?"

"I'm right; as I never thought I could be ever again. "

"Well, you needn't exaggerate the little services of your cruelcreditor. Come to think of it, you needn't name him. Just say it was aman you knew. "

But when Paula came to write the letter that was not just what shesaid. 

Book 4. --The Other Man

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE FLIGHT. 

The full sunlight streamed into the room when Betty, her packing done, drew back the curtain. She looked out on the glazed roof of thelaundry, the lead roof of the office, the blank wall of the newgrocery establishment in the Rue de Rennes. Only a little blue skyshewed at the end of the lane, between roofs, by which the sun camein. Not a tree, not an inch of grass, in sight; only, in her room, half a dozen roses that Temple had left for her, and the whitemarguerite plant--tall, sturdy, a little tree almost--that Vernon hadsent in from the florist's next door but two. Everything was packed. She would say good-bye to Madame Bianchi; and she would go, and leaveno address, as she had promised last night. 

"Why did you promise?" she asked herself. And herself replied:

"Don't you bother. We'll talk about all that when we've got away fromParis. He was quite right. You can't think here. "

"You'd better tell the cabman some other station. That cat of aconcierge is sure to be listening. "

"Ah, right. I don't want to give him any chance of finding me, even ifhe did say he wanted to marry me. "

A fleet lovely picture of herself in bridal smart travelling clothesarriving at the Rectory on Vernon's arm:

"Aren't you sorry you misjudged him so, Father?" Gentle accentsrefraining from reproach. A very pretty picture. Yes. Dismissed. 

Now the carriage swaying under the mound of Betty's luggage starts forthe Gare du Nord. In the Rue Notre Dame des Champs Betty opens hermouth to say, "Gare de Lyons. " No: this is _his_ street. Better crossit as quickly as may be. At the Church of St. Germain--yes. 

The coachman smiles at the new order: like the concierge he scents anintrigue, whips up his horse, and swings round to the left along theprettiest of all the boulevards, between the full-leafed trees. PastThirion's. Ah!

That thought, or pang, or nausea--Betty doesn't quite know what itis--keeps her eyes from the streets till the carriage is crossing theriver. Why--there is Notre Dame! It ought to be miles away. SupposeVernon should have been leaning out of his window when she passedacross the street, seen her, divined her destination, followed her inthe fleetest carriage accessible? The vision of a meeting at thestation:

"Why are you going away? What have I done?" The secret of this, hergreat renunciation--the whole life's sacrifice to that life'sidol--honor, wrung from her. A hand that would hold hers--underpretence of taking her bundle of rugs to carry. --She wished theoutermost rug were less shabby! Vernon's voice. 

"But I can't let you go. Why ruin two lives--nay, three? For it is youonly that I--"

Dismissed. 

It is very hot. Paris is the hottest place in the world. Betty is gladshe brought lavender water in her bag. Wishes she had put on her otherhat. This brown one is hot; and besides, if Vernon _were_ to be at thestation. Interval. Dismissed. 

Betty has never before made a railway journey alone. This gives one aforlorn feeling. Suppose she has to pay excess on her luggage, or towrangle about contraband? She has heard all about the Octroi. Islavender water smuggling? And what can they do to you for it? Vernonwould know all these things. And if he were going into the country hewould be wearing that almost-white rough suit of his and the Panamahat. A rose--Madame Abel de Chatenay--would go well with that coat. Why didn't brides consult their bridegrooms before they bought theirtrousseaux? You should get your gowns to rhyme with your husband'ssuits. A dream of a dress that would be, with all the shades of MadameAbel cunningly blended. A honeymoon lasts at least a month. The roseswould all be out at Long Barton by the time they walked up thatmoss-grown drive, and stood at the Rectory door, and she murmured inthe ear of the Reverend Cecil: "Aren't you sorry you--"

Dismissed. And perforce, for the station was reached. 

Betty, even in the brown hat, attracted the most attractive of theporters--also, of course, the most attractable. He thought he spokeEnglish, and though this was not so, yet the friendly blink of hisBreton-blue eyes and his encouraging smile gave to his:

"Bourron? Mais oui--dix heures vingt. Par ici, Meess. Je m'occuperaide vous. Et des bagages aussi--all right, " quite the ring of one'smother tongue. 

He made everything easy for Betty, found her a carriage withoutcompany ("I can cry here if I like, " said the Betty that Betty likedleast), arranged her small packages neatly in the rack, took her 50centime piece as though it had been a priceless personal souvenir, andran half the length of the platform to get a rose from anotherporter's button-hole. He handed it to her through the carriage window. 

"_Pour égayer le voyage de Meess_. All right!" he smiled, and wasgone. 

She settled herself in the far corner, and took off her hat. Thecarriage was hot as any kitchen. With her teeth she drew the cork ofthe lavender water bottle, and with her handkerchief dabbed theperfume on forehead and ears. 

"Ah, Mademoiselle--_De grace_!"--the voice came through the openwindow beside her. A train full of young soldiers was beside hertrain, and in the window opposite hers three boys' faces crowded tolook at her. Three hands held out three handkerchiefs--not very whitecertainly, but--

Betty smiling reached out the bottle and poured lavender water on eachoutheld handkerchief. 

"_Ah, le bon souvenir_!" said one. 

"We shall think of the beauty of an angel of Mademoiselle every timewe smell the perfume so delicious, " said the second. 

"And longer than that--oh, longer than that by all a life!" cried thethird. 

The train started. The honest, smiling boy faces disappeared. Instinctively she put her head out of the window to look back at them. All three threw kisses at her. 

"I ought to be offended, " said Betty, and instantly kissed her hand inreturn. 

"How _nice_ French people are!" she said as she sank back on the hotcushions. 

And now there was leisure to think--real thoughts, not those broken, harassing dreamings that had buzzed about her between 57 BoulevardMontparnasse and the station. Also, as some one had suggested, onecould cry. 

She leaned back, eyes shut. Her next thought was:

"I have been to sleep. "

She had. The train was moving out of a station labelled Fontainebleau. 

"And oh, the trees!" said Betty, "the green thick trees! And the sky. You can see the sky. "

Through the carriage window she drank delight from the far grandeur ofgreen distances, the intimate beauty of green rides, green vistas, asa thirsty carter drinks beer from the cool lip of his can--a thirstylover madness from the warm lips of his mistress. 

"Oh, how good! How green and good!" she told herself over and overagain till the words made a song with the rhythm of the blunderingtrain and the humming metals. 

"Bourron!"

Her station. Little, quiet, sunlit, like the station at Long Barton; aflaming broom bush and the white of May and acacia blossom beyond primpalings; no platform--a long leap to the dusty earth. The train wenton, and Betty and her boxes seemed dropped suddenly at the world'send. 

The air was fresh and still. A chestnut tree reared its white blossomslike the candles on a Christmas tree for giant children. The whitedust of the platform sparkled like diamond dust. May trees andlaburnums shone like silver and gold. And the sun was warm and thetree-shadows black on the grass. And Betty loved it all. 

"_Oh_!" she said suddenly, "it's a year ago to-day since I met_him_--in the warren. "

A shadow caressed and stung her. She would have liked it to wear themask of love foregone--to have breathed plaintively of hopes defeatedand a broken heart. Instead it shewed the candid face of a realhomesickness, and it spoke with convincing and abominably aggravatingplainness--of Long Barton. 

The little hooded diligence was waiting in the hot white dust outsidethe station. 

"But yes. --It is I who transport all the guests of Madame Chevillon, "said the smiling brown-haired bonnetless woman who held the reins. 

Betty climbed up beside her. 

Along a straight road that tall ranks of trees guarded but did notshade, through the patchwork neatness of the little culture that makesthe deep difference between peasant France and pastoral England, downa steep hill into a little white town, where vines grew out of thevery street to cling against the faces of the houses and wistaria hungits mauve pendants from every arch and lintel. 

The Hotel Chevillon is a white-faced house, with little unintelligenteyes of windows, burnt blind, it seems, in the sun--neat with theneatness of Provincial France. 

Out shuffled an old peasant woman in short skirt, heavy shoes and bigapron, her arms bared to the elbow, a saucepan in one hand, a ladle inthe other. She beamed at Betty. 

"I wish to see Madame Chevillon. "

"You see her, _ma belle et bonne_, " chuckled the old woman. "It is me, Madame Chevillon. You will rooms, is it not? You are artist? All whocome to the Hotel are artist. Rooms? Marie shall show you the rooms, at the instant even. All the rooms--except one--that is the room ofthe English Artist--all that there is of most amiable, but quite mad. He wears no hat, and his brain boils in the sun. Mademoiselle can chatwith him: it will prevent that she bores herself here in the Forest. "

Betty disliked the picture. 

"I think perhaps, " she said, translating mentally as she spoke, "thatI should do better to go to another hotel, if there is only one manhere and he is--"

She saw days made tiresome by the dodging of a lunatic--nights madetremulous by a lunatic's yelling soliloquies. 

"Ah, " said Madame Chevillon comfortably, "I thought Mademoiselle wasartist; and for the artists and the Spaniards the _convenances_ existnot. But Mademoiselle is also English. They eat the convenances everyday with the soup. --See then, my cherished. The English man, he is nota dangerous fool, only a beast of the good God; he has the atelier andthe room at the end of the corridor. But there is, besides the Hotel, the Garden Pavilion, un appartement of two rooms, exquisite, on thefirst, and the garden room that opens big upon the terrace. It isthere that Mademoiselle will be well!"

Betty thought so too, when she had seen the "rooms exquisite on thefirst"--neat, bare, well-scrubbed rooms with red-tiled floors, scantyrugs and Frenchly varnished furniture--the garden room too, with bigopen hearth and no furniture but wicker chairs and tables. 

"Mademoiselle can eat all alone on the terrace. The English mad shallnot approach. I will charge myself with that. Mademoiselle may reposeherself here as on the bosom of the mother of Mademoiselle. "

Betty had her déjeuner on the little stone terrace with rickety rusticrailings. Below lay the garden, thick with trees. 

Away among the trees to the left an arbour. She saw through the leavesthe milk-white gleam of flannels, heard the chink of china andcutlery. There, no doubt, the mad Englishman was even nowbreakfasting. There was the width of the garden between them. She satstill till the flannel gleam had gone away among the trees. Then shewent out and explored the little town. She bought a blue packet ofcigarettes. Miss Voscoe had often tried to persuade her to smoke. Mostof the girls did. Betty had not wanted to do it any more for that. Shehad had a feeling that Vernon would not like her to smoke. 

And in Paris one had to be careful. But now--

"I am absolutely my own master, " she said. "I am staying by myself ata hotel, exactly like a man. I shall feel more at home if I smoke. Andbesides, no one can see me. It's just for me. And it shows I don'tcare what _he_ likes. "

Lying in a long chair reading one of her Tauchnitz books and smoking, Betty felt very manly indeed. 

The long afternoon wore on. The trees of the garden crowded roundBetty with soft whispers in a language not known of the trees on theboulevards. 

"I am very very unhappy, " said Betty with a deep sigh of delight. 

She went in, unpacked, arranged everything neatly. She always arrangedeverything neatly, but nothing ever would stay arranged. She wrote toher father, explaining that Madame Gautier had brought her and theother girls to Grez for the summer, and she gave as her address:

Chez Madame Chevillon, Pavilion du Jardin, Grez. 

"I shall be very very unhappy to-morrow, " said Betty that night, laying her face against the coarse cool linen of her pillow; "to-day Ihave been stunned---I haven't been able to feel anything. Butto-morrow. "

To-morrow, she knew, would be golden and green even as to-day. But sheshould not care. She did not want to be happy. How could she be happynow that she had of her own free will put away the love of her life?She called and beckoned to all the thoughts that the green world shutout, and they came at her call, fluttering black wings to hide thesights and sounds of field and wood and green garden, and making theirnest in her heart. 

"Yes, " she said, turning the hot rough pillow, "now it begins to hurtagain. I knew it would. "

It hurt more than she had meant it to hurt, when she beckoned thoseblack-winged thoughts. It hurt so much that she could not sleep. Shegot up and leaned from the window. 

She wondered where Vernon was. It was quite early. Not eleven. LadySt. Craye had called that quite early. 

"He's with _her_, of course, " said Betty, "sitting at her feet, nodoubt, and looking up at her hateful eyes, and holding her horridhand, and forgetting that he ever knew a girl named Me. "

Betty dressed and went out. 

She crossed the garden. It was very dark among the trees. It would belighter in the road. 

The big yard door was ajar. She pushed it softly. It creaked and lether through into the silent street. There were no lights in the hotel, no lights in any of the houses. 

She stood a moment, hesitating. A door creaked inside the hotel. Shetook the road to the river. 

"I wonder if people ever _do_ drown themselves for love, " said Betty:"he'd be sorry then. "

CHAPTER XXII. 

THE LUNATIC. 

The night kept its promise. Betty, slipping from the sleeping houseinto the quiet darkness, seemed to slip into a poppy-fringed pool ofoblivion. The night laid fresh, cold hands on her tired eyes, and shutout many things. She paused for a minute on the bridge to listen tothe restful restless whisper of the water against the rough stone. 

Her eyes growing used to the darkness discerned the white ribbon ofroad unrolling before her. The trees were growing thicker. This mustbe the forest. Certainly it was the forest. 

"How dark it is, " she said, "how dear and dark! And how still! Isuppose the trams are running just the same along the BoulevardMontparnasse, --and all the lights and people, and the noise. And I'vebeen there all these months--and all the time this was here--this!"

Paris was going on--all that muddle and maze of worried people. Andshe was out of it all; here, alone. 

Alone? A quick terror struck at the heart of her content. An abrupthorrible certainty froze her--the certainty that she was not alone. There was some living thing besides herself in the forest, quite nearher--something other than the deer and the squirrels and the quietdainty woodland people. She felt it in every fibre long before sheheard that faint light sound that was not one of the forest noises. She stood still and listened. 

She had never been frightened of the dark--of the outdoor dark. AtLong Barton she had never been afraid even to go past the church-yardin the dark night--the free night that had never held any terrors, only dreams. 

But now: she quickened her pace, and--yes--footsteps came on behindher. And in front the long straight ribbon of the road unwound, graynow in the shadow. There seemed to be no road turning to right orleft. She could not go on forever. She would have to turn, sometime--if not now, yet sometime--in this black darkness, and thenshe would meet this thing that trod so softly, so stealthily behindher. 

Before she knew that she had ceased to walk, she was crouched in theblack between two bushes. She had leapt as the deer leaps, andcrouched, still as any deer. 

Her dark blue linen gown was one with the forest shadows. She breathednoiselessly--her eyes were turned to the gray ribbon of road that hadbeen behind her. She had heard. Now she would see. 

She did see--something white and tall and straight. Oh, the relief ofthe tallness and straightness and whiteness! She had thought ofsomething dwarfed and clumsy--dark, misshapen, slouching beast-like ontwo shapeless feet. Why were people afraid of tall white ghosts?

It passed. It was a man--in a white suit. Just an ordinary man. No, not ordinary. The ordinary man in France does not wear white. Nor inEngland, except for boating and tennis and--

Flannels. Yes. The lunatic who boiled his brains in the sun!

Betty's terror changed colour as the wave changes from green to white, but it lost not even so much of its force as the wave loses by thechange. It held her moveless till the soft step of the tennis shoesdied away. Then softly and hardly moving at all, moving so little thatnot a leaf of those friendly bushes rustled, she slipped off hershoes: took them in her hand, made one leap through the crackling, protesting undergrowth and fled back along the road, fleet as agreyhound. 

She ran and she walked, very fast, and then she ran again and neveronce did she pause to look or listen. If the lunatic caught her--well, he would catch her, but it should not be _her_ fault if he did. 

The trees were thinner. Ahead she saw glimpses of a world that lookedquite light, the bridge ahead. With one last spurt she ran across it, tore up the little bit of street, slipped through the door, andbetween the garden trees to her pavilion. 

She looked very carefully in every corner--all was still and empty. She locked the door, and fell face downward on her bed. 

Vernon in his studio was "thinking things over" after the advice ofMiss Voscoe in much the same attitude. 

"Oh, " said Betty, "I will never go out at night again! And I willleave this horrible, horrible place the very first thing to-morrowmorning!"

But to-morrow morning touched the night's events with new colours fromits shining palette. 

"After all, even a lunatic has a right to walk out in the forest if itwants to, " she told herself, "and it didn't know I was there, Iexpect, really. But I think I'll go and stay at some other hotel. "

She asked, when her "complete coffee" came to her, what the madgentleman did all day. 

"He is not so stupid as Mademoiselle supposes, " said Marie. "All theartists are insane, and he, he is only a little more insane than theothers. He is not a real mad, all the same, see you. To-day he makesdrawings at Montigny. "

"Which way is Montigny?" asked Betty. And, learning, strolled, whenher coffee was finished, by what looked like the other way. 

It took her to the river. 

"It's like the Medway, " said Betty, stooping to the fat cowslips ather feet, "only prettier; and I never saw any cowslips here--Youdears!"

Betty would not look at her sorrow in this gay, glad world. But sheknew at last what her sorrow's name was. She saw now that it was lovethat had stood all the winter between her and Vernon, holding a handof each. In her blindness she had called it friendship, --but now sheknew its real, royal name. 

She felt that her heart was broken. Even the fact that her grief was athing to be indulged or denied at will brought her no doubts. She hadalways wanted to be brave and noble. Well, now she was being both. 

A turn of the river brought to sight a wide reach dotted with greenislands, each a tiny forest of willow saplings and young alders. 

There was a boat moored under an aspen, a great clumsy boat, but ithad sculls in it. It would be pleasant to go out to the islands. 

She got into the boat, loosened the heavy rattling chain and flung itin board, took up the sculls and began to pull. It was easy work. 

"I didn't know I was such a good oar, " said Betty as the boat creptswiftly down the river. 

As she stepped into the boat, she noticed the long river reedsstraining down stream like the green hair of hidden water-nixies. 

She would land at the big island--the boat steered easily and lightlyenough for all its size--but before she could ship her oars and graspat a willow root she shot past the island. 

Then she remembered the streaming green weeds. 

"Why, there must be a frightful current!" she said. What could makethe river run at this pace--a weir--or a waterfall?

She turned the boat's nose up stream and pulled. Ah, this was work!Then her eyes, fixed in the exertion of pulling, found that they sawno moving banks, but just one picture: a willow, a clump of irises, three poplars in the distance--and the foreground of the picture didnot move. All her pulling only sufficed to keep the boat from goingwith the stream. And now, as the effort relaxed a little it did noteven do this. The foreground did move--the wrong way. The boat wasslipping slowly down stream. She turned and made for the bank, but thestream caught her broadside on, whirled the boat round and swept itcalmly and gently down--towards the weir--or the waterfall. 

Betty pulled two strong strokes, driving the boat's nose straight forthe nearest island, shipped the sculls with a jerk, stumbled forwardand caught at an alder stump. She flung the chain round it and madefast. The boat's stern swung round--it was thrust in under the bankand held there close; the chain clicked loudly as it stretched taut. 

"Well!" said Betty. The island was between her and the riverside path. No one would be able to see her. She must listen and call out when sheheard anyone pass. Then they would get another boat and come and fetchher away. She would not tempt fate again alone in that boat. She wasnot going to be drowned in any silly French river. 

She landed, pushed through the saplings, found a mossy willow stumpand sat down to get her breath. 

It was very hot on the island. It smelt damply of wet lily leaves andiris roots and mud. Flies buzzed and worried. The time was very long. And no one came by. 

"I may have to spend the day here, " she told herself. "It's not sosafe in the boat, but it's not so fly-y either. "

And still no one passed. 

Suddenly the soft whistling of a tune came through the hot air. A tuneshe had learned in Paris. 

"_C'etait deux amants_. "

"Hi!" cried Betty in a voice that was not at all like her voice. "Help!--_Au secours_!" she added on second thoughts. 

"Where are you?" came a voice. How alike all Englishmen's voicesseemed--in a foreign land!

"Here--on the island! Send someone out with a boat, will you? I can'twork my boat a bit. "

Through the twittering leaves she saw something white waving. Nextmoment a big splash. She could see, through a little gap, a whiteblazer thrown down on the bank--a pair of sprawling brown boots; inthe water a sleek wet round head, an arm in a blue shirt sleeveswimming a strong side stroke. It was the lunatic; of course it was. And she had called to him, and he was coming. She pushed back to theboat, leaped in, and was fumbling with the chain when she heard thesplash and the crack of broken twigs that marked the lunatic'slanding. 

She would rather chance the weir or the waterfall than be alone onthat island with a maniac. But the chain was stretched straight andstiff as a lance, --she could not untwist it. She was still struggling, with pink fingers bruised and rust-stained, when something heavycrashed through the saplings and a voice cried close to her:

"Drop it! What are you doing?"--and a hand fell on the chain. 

Betty, at bay, raised her head. Lunatics, she knew, could be quelledby the calm gaze of the sane human eye. 

She gave one look, and held out both hands with a joyous cry. 

"Oh, --it's _you_! I _am_ so glad! Where did you come from? Oh, how wetyou are!"

Then she sat down on the thwart and said no more, because of thechoking feeling in her throat that told her very exactly just howfrightened she had been. 

"You!" Temple was saying very slowly. "How on earth? Where are youstaying? Where's your party?"

He was squeezing the water out of sleeves and trouser legs. 

"I haven't got a party. I'm staying alone at a hotel--just like a man. I know you're frightfully shocked. You always are. "

"Where are you staying?" he asked, drawing the chain in hand overhand, till a loose loop of it dipped in the water. 

"Hotel Chevillon. How dripping you are!"

"Hotel Chevillon, " he repeated. "Never! Then it was _you_!"

"What was me?"

"That I was sheep-dog to last night in the forest. "

"Then it was _you_? And I thought it was the lunatic! Oh, if I'd onlyknown! But why did you come after me--if you didn't know it _was_ me?"

Temple blushed through the runnels of water that trickled from hishair. 

"I--well, Madame told me there was an English girl staying at thehotel--and I heard some one go out--and I looked out of the window andI thought it was the girl, and I just--well, if anything had gonewrong--a drunken man, or anything--it was just as well there should besomeone there, don't you know. "

"That's very, very nice of you, " said Betty. "But oh!"--She told himabout the lunatic. 

"Oh, that's me!" said Temple. "I recognise the portrait, especiallyabout the hat. "

He had loosened the chain and was pulling with strong even strokesacross the river towards the bank where his coat lay. 

"We'll land here if you don't mind. "

"Can't you pull up to the place where I stole the boat?"

He laughed:

"The man's not living who could pull against this stream when themill's going and the lower sluice gates are open. How glad I am thatI--And how plucky and splendid of you not to lose your head, but justto hang on. It takes a lot of courage to wait, doesn't it?"

Betty thought it did. 

"Let me carry your coat, " said Betty as they landed. "You'll make itso wet. "

He stood still a moment and looked at her. 

"Now we're on terra cotta, " he said, "let me remind you that we've notshaken hands. Oh, but it's good to see you again!"

 * * * * *

"Look well, my child, " said Madame Chevillon, "and when you seeapproach the Meess, warn me, that I may make the little omelette atthe instant. "

"Oh, la, la, madame!" cried Marie five minutes later. "Here it is thatshe comes, and the mad with her. He talks with her, in laughing. Shecarries his coat, and neither the one nor the other has any hat. "

"I will make a double omelette, " said Madame. "Give me still more ofthe eggs. The English are all mad--the one like the other; but evenmads must eat, my child. Is it not?"

CHAPTER XXIII. 

TEMPERATURES. 

"It isn't as though she were the sort of girl who can't take care ofherself, " said Lady St. Craye to the Inward Monitor who was buzzing itsindiscreet common-places in her ear. "I've really done her a good turnby sending her to Grez. No--it's not in the least compromising for agirl to stay at the same hotel. And besides, there are lots of amusingpeople there, I expect. She'll have a delightful time, and get to knowthat Temple boy really well. I'm sure he'd repay investigation. If Iweren't a besotted fool I could have pursued those researches myself. But it's not what's worth having that one wants; it's--it's what one_does_ want. Yes. That's all. "

Paris was growing intolerable. But for--well, a thousand reasons--LadySt. Craye would already have left it. The pavements were red-hot. Whenone drove it was through an air like the breath from the open mouth ofa furnace. 

She kept much within doors, filled her rooms with roses, and livedwith every window open. Her balcony, too, was full of flowers, and thestriped sun-blinds beyond each open window kept the rooms in pleasantshadow. 

"But suppose something happens to her--all alone there, " said theInward Monitor. 

"Nothing will. She's not that sort of girl. " Her headache had beengrowing worse these three days. The Inward Monitor might have hadpity, remembering that--but no. 

"You told Him that all girls were the same sort of girls, " said thepitiless voice. 

"I didn't mean in that way. I suppose you'd have liked me to writethat anonymous letter and restore her to the bosom of her furiousfamily? I've done the girl a good turn--for what she did for me. She'sa good little thing--too good for him, even if I didn't happen to--AndTemple's her ideal mate. I wonder if he's found it out yet? He musthave by now: three weeks in the same hotel. "

Temple, however, was not in the same hotel. The very day of the riverrescue and the double omelette he had moved his traps a couple ofmiles down the river to Montigny. 

A couple of miles is a good distance. Also a very little way, as youchoose to take it. 

"You know it was a mean trick, " said the Inward Monitor. "Why not havelet the girl go away where she could be alone--and get over it?"

"Oh, be quiet!" said Lady St. Craye. "I never knew myself so tiresomebefore. I think I must be going to be ill. My head feels like an icein an omelette. "

Vernon, strolling in much later, found her with eyes closed, leaningback among her flowers as she had lain all that long afternoon. 

"How pale you look, " he said. "You ought to get away from here. "

"Yes, " she said, "I suppose I ought. It would be easier for you if youhadn't the awful responsibility of bringing me roses every other day. What beauty-darlings these are!" She dipped her face in the fresh purewhiteness of the ones he had laid on her knee. Their faces felt cold, like the faces of dead people. She shivered. 

"Heaven knows what I should do without you to--to bring my--my rosesto, " he said. 

"Do you bring me anything else to-day?" she roused herself to ask. "Any news, for instance?"

"No, " he said. "There isn't any news--there never will be. She's gonehome--I'm certain of it. Next week I shall go over to England andpropose for her formally to her step-father. "

"A very proper course!"

It was odd that talking to some one else should make one's head throblike this. And it was so difficult to know what to say. Very odd. Ithad been much easier to talk to the Inward Monitor. 

She made herself say: "And suppose she isn't there?" She thought shesaid it rather well. 

"Well, then there's no harm done. "

"He doesn't like you. " She was glad she had remembered that. 

"He didn't--but the one little word 'marriage, ' simply spoken, is amagic spell for taming savage relatives. They'll eat out of your handafter that--at least so I'm told. "

It was awful that he should decide to do this--heart-breaking. But itdid not seem to be hurting her heart. That felt as though it wasn'tthere. Could one feel emotion in one's hands and feet? Hers were icecold--but inside they tingled and glowed, like a worm of fire in achrysalis of ice. What a silly simile. 

"Must you go?" was what she found herself saying. "Suppose she isn'tthere at all? You'll simply be giving her away--all her secret--andhe'll fetch her home. "

That at least was quite clearly put. 

"I'm certain she is at home, " he said. "And I don't see why I amwaiting till next week. I'll go to-morrow. "

If you are pulling a rose to pieces it is very important to lay thepetals in even rows on your lap, especially if the rose be white. 

"Eustace, " she said, suddenly feeling quite coherent, "I wish youwouldn't go away from Paris just now. I don't believe you'd find her. I have a feeling that she's not far away. I think that is quitesensible. I am not saying it because I--And--I feel very ill, Eustace. I think I am--Oh, I am going, to be ill, very ill, I think! Won't youwait a little? You'll have such years and years to be happy in. Idon't want to be ill here in Paris with no one to care. "

She was leaning forward, her hands on the arms of her chair, and forthe first time that day, he saw her face plainly. He said: "I shall goout now, and wire for your sister. "

"Not for worlds! I forbid it. She'd drive me mad. No--but my head'srunning round like a beetle on a pin. I think you'd better go now. Butdon't go to-morrow. I mean I think I'll go to sleep. I feel as if I'dtumbled off the Eiffel tower and been caught on a cloud--one side ofit's cold and the other's blazing. "

He took her hand, felt her pulse. Then he kissed the hand. 

"My dear, tired Jasmine Lady, " he said, "I'll send in a doctor. Anddon't worry. I won't go to-morrow. I'll write. "

"Oh, very well, " she said, "write then, --and it will all comeout--about her being here alone. And she'll always hate you. _I_ don'tcare what you do!"

"I suppose I can write a letter as though--as though I'd not seen hersince Long Barton. " He inwardly thanked her for that hint. 

"A letter written from Paris? That's so likely, isn't it? But do whatyou like. _I_ don't care what you do. "

She was faintly, agreeably surprised to notice that she was speakingthe truth. "It's rather pleasant, do you know, " she went on dreamily, "when everything that matters suddenly goes flat, and you wonder whaton earth you ever worried about. Why do people always talk about coldshivers? I think hot shivers are much more amusing. It's like askylark singing up close to the sun, and doing the tremolo with itswings. I'm sorry you're going away, though. "

"I'm not going away, " he said. "I wouldn't leave you when you're illfor all the life's happinesses that ever were. Oh, why can't you cureme? I don't want to want her; I want to want you. "

"I'm certain, " said Lady St. Craye brightly, "that what you've justbeen saying's most awfully interesting, but I like to hear things saidever so many times. Then the seventh time you understand everything, and the coldness and the hotness turn into silver and gold andeverything is quite beautiful, and I think I am not saying exactlywhat you expected. --Don't think I don't know that what I say soundslike nonsense. I know that quite well, only I can't stop talking. Youknow one is like that sometimes. It was like that the night you hitme. "

"I? _Hit you_?"

He was kneeling by her low chair holding her hand, as she lay backtalking quickly in low, even tones, her golden eyes shiningwonderfully. 

"No--you didn't call it hitting. But things aren't always what we callthem, are they? You mustn't kiss me now, Eustace. I think I've gotsome horrid fever--I'm sure I have. Because of course nobody could bebewitched nowadays, and put into a body that feels thick and thin inthe wrong places. And my head _isn't_ too big to get through thedoor. --Of course I know it isn't. It would be funny if it were. I dolove funny things. --So do you. I like to hear you laugh. I wish Icould say something funny, so as to hear you laugh now. "

She was holding his hand very tightly with one of hers. The other heldthe white roses. All her mind braced itself to a great exertion as themuscles do for a needed effort. She spoke very slowly. 

"Listen, Eustace. I am going to be ill. Get a nurse and a doctor andgo away. Perhaps it is catching. And if I fall through the floor, " sheadded laughing, "it is so hard to stop!"

"Put your arms round my neck, " he said, for she had risen and wasswaying like a flame in the wind--the white rose leaves fell inshowers. 

"I don't think I want to, now, " she said, astonished that it should beso. 

"Oh, yes, you do!"--He spoke as one speaks to a child. "Put your armsround Eustace's neck, --your own Eustace that's so fond of you. "

"Are you?" she said, and her arms fell across his shoulders. 

"Of course I am, " he said. "Hold tight. "

He lifted her and carried her, not quite steadily, for carrying afull-grown woman is not the bagatelle novelists would have us believeit. 

He opened her bedroom door, laid her on the white, lacy coverlet ofher bed. 

"Now, " he said, "you are to lie quite still. You've been so good anddear and unselfish. You've always done everything I've asked, evendifficult things. This is quite easy. Just lie and think about me tillI come back. "

He bent over the bed and kissed her gently. 

"Ah!" she sighed. There was a flacon on the table by the bed. Heexpected it to be jasmine. It was lavender water; he drenched her hairand brow and hands. 

"That's nice, " said she. "I'm not really ill. I think it's nice to beill. Quite still do you mean, like that?"

She folded her hands, the white roses still clasped. The white bed, the white dress, the white flowers. Horrible!

"Yes, " he said firmly, "just like that. I shall be back in fiveminutes. "

He was not gone three. He came back and--till the doctor came, summoned by the concierge--he sat by her, holding her hands, coveringher with furs from the wardrobe when she shivered, bathing her wristswith perfumed water when she threw off the furs and spoke of the firethat burned in her secret heart of cold clouds. 

When the doctor came he went out by that excellent Irishman'sdirection and telegraphed for a nurse. 

Then he waited in the cool shaded sitting-room, among the flowers. This was where he had hit her--as she said. There on the divan she hadcried, leaning her head against his sleeve. Here, half-way to thedoor, they had kissed each other. No, he would certainly not go toEngland while she was ill. He felt sufficiently like a murdereralready. But he would write. He glanced at her writing-table. 

A little pang pricked him, and drove him to the balcony. 

"No, " he said, "if we are to hit people, at least let us hit themfairly. " But all the same he found himself playing with theword-puzzle whose solution was the absolutely right letter to Betty'sfather, asking her hand in marriage. 

"Well, " he asked the doctor who closed softly the door of the bedroomand came forward, "is it brain-fever?"

"Holy Ann, no! Brain fever's a fell disease invented by novelists--Inever met it in all _my_ experience. The doctors in novels havespecial advantages. No, it's influenza--pretty severe touch too. Sheought to have been in bed days ago. She'll want careful lookingafter. "

"I see, " said Vernon. "Any danger?"

"There's always danger, Lord--Saint-Croix isn't it?"

"I have not the honour to be Lady St. Craye's husband, " said Vernonequably. "I was merely calling, and she seemed so ill that I took uponmyself to--"

"I see--I see. Well, if you don't mind taking on yourself to let herhusband know? It's a nasty case. Temperature 104. Perhaps her husband'ud be as well here as anywhere. "

"He's dead, " said Vernon. 

"Oh!" said the doctor with careful absence of expression. "Get somewoman to put her to bed and to stay with her till the nurse comes. She's in a very excitable state. Good afternoon. I'll look in afterdinner. "

When Vernon had won the concierge to the desired service, had seen thenurse installed, had dined, called for news of Lady St. Craye, learnedthat she was "_toujours très souffrante_, " he went home, pulled atable into the middle of his large, bare, hot studio, and sat down towrite to the Reverend Cecil Underwood. 

"I mean to do it, " he told himself, "and it can't hurt _her_ my doingit now instead of a month ahead, when she's well again. In fact, it'sbetter for all of us to get it settled one way or another while she'snot caring about anything. "

So he wrote. And he wrote a great deal, though the letter that at lasthe signed was quite short:

 My Dear Sir:

 I have the honour to ask the hand of your daughter in marriage. When you asked me, most properly, my intentions, I told you that I was betrothed to another lady. This is not now the case. And I have found myself wholly unable to forget the impression made upon me last year by Miss Desmond. My income is about £1, 700 a year, and increases yearly. I beg to apologise for anything which may have annoyed you in my conduct last year, and to assure you that my esteem and affection for Miss Desmond are lasting and profound, and that, should she do me the honour to accept my proposal, I shall devote my life's efforts to secure her happiness. 

 I am, my dear Sir, Your obedient servant, Eustace Vernon. 

"That ought to do the trick, " he told himself. "Talk of old worldcourtesy and ceremonial! Anyhow, I shall know whether she's at LongBarton by the time it takes to get an answer. If it's two days, she'sthere. If it's longer she isn't. He'll send my letter on toher--unless he suppresses it. Your really pious people are soshockingly unscrupulous. "

There is nothing so irretrievable as a posted letter. This came hometo Vernon as the envelope dropped on the others in the box at the Cafédu Dóme--came home to him rather forlornly. 

Next morning he called with more roses for Lady St. Craye, pinky onesthis time. 

"Milady was toujours _très souffrante_. It would be ten days, at theleast, before Milady could receive, even a very old friend, likeMonsieur. "

The letter reached Long Barton between the Guardian and a catalogue ofSome Rare Books. The Reverend Cecil read it four times. He was tryingto be just. At first he thought he would write "No" and tell Bettyyears later. But the young man had seen the error of his ways. And£1, 700 a year!--

The surprise visit with which the Reverend Cecil had always intendedto charm his step-daughter suddenly found its date quite definitelyfixed. This could not be written. He must go to the child and break itto her very gently, very tenderly--find out quite delicately andcleverly exactly what her real feelings were. Girls were so shy aboutthose things. 

Miss Julia Desmond had wired him from Suez that she would be in Parisnext week--had astonishingly asked him to meet her there. 

"Paris next Tuesday Gare St. Lazare 6:45. Come and see Betty viaDieppe, " had been her odd message. 

He had not meant to go--not next Tuesday. He was afraid of Miss JuliaDesmond. He would rather have his Lizzie all to himself. But now--

He wrote a cablegram to Miss Julia Desmond: "Care Captain S. S. Urania, Brindisi: Will meet you in Paris. " Then he thought that this mightseem to the telegraph people not quite nice, so he changed it to:"Going to see Lizzie Tuesday. "

The fates that had slept so long were indeed waking up and beginningto take notice of Betty. Destiny, like the most attractive of theporters at the Gare de Lyon, "_s'occupait d'elle_. "

CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE CONFESSIONAL. 

The concierge sat at her window under the arch of the porte-cochère at57 Boulevard Montparnasse. She sat gazing across its black shade tothe sunny street. She was thinking. The last twenty-four hours hadgiven food for thought. 

The trams passed and repassed, people in carriages, people onfoot--the usual crowd--not interesting. 

But the open carriage suddenly drawn up at the other side of the broadpavement was interesting, very. For it contained the lady who hadgiven the 100 francs, and had promised another fifty on the first ofthe month. She had never come with that fifty, and the conciergehaving given up all hope of seeing her again, had acted accordingly. 

Lady St. Craye, pale as the laces of her sea-green cambric gown, cameslowly up the cobble-paved way and halted at the window. 

"Good morning, Madame, " she said. "I bring you the little present. "

The concierge was genuinely annoyed. Why had she not waited a littlelonger? Still, all was not yet lost. 

"Come in, Madame, " she said. "Madame has the air very fatigued. "

"I have been very ill, " said Lady St. Craye. 

"If Madame will give herself the trouble to go round by the otherdoor--" The concierge went round and met her visitor in the hall, andbrought her into the closely furnished little room with the highwooden bed, the round table, the rack for letters, and the big lamp. 

"Will Madame give herself the trouble to sit down? Would it bepermitted to offer Madame something--a little glass of sugared water?No? I regret infinitely not having known that Madame was suffering. Ishould have acted otherwise. "

"What have you done?" she asked quickly. "You haven't told anyone thatI was here that night?"

"Do not believe it for an instant, " said the woman reassuringly. "'No--after Madame's goodness I held myself wholly at the dispositionof Madame. But when the day appointed passed itself without yourvisit, I said to myself: 'The little affaire has ceased to interestthis lady; she is weary of it!' My grateful heart found itself free toacknowledge the kindness of others. "

"Tell me exactly, " said Lady St. Craye, "what you have done. "

"It was but last week, " the concierge went on, rearranging a stiffbouquet in exactly the manner of an embarrassed ingénue on the stage, "but only last week that I received a letter from MademoiselleDesmond. She sent me her address. "

She paused. Lady St. Craye laid the bank note on the table. 

"Madame wants the address?"

"I have the address. I want to know whether you have given it toanyone else. "

"No, Madame, " said the concierge with simple pride, "when you havegiven a thing you have it not any longer. "

"Well--pardon me--have you sold it?"

"For the same good reason, no, Madame. "

"Take the note, " said Lady St. Craye, "and tell me what you have donewith the address. "

"This gentleman, whom Madame did not wish to know that she had beenhere that night--"

"I didn't wish _anyone_ to know!"

"Perfectly: this gentleman comes without ceasing to ask of me news ofMademoiselle Desmond. And always I have no news. But when Mademoisellewrites me: 'I am at the hotel such and such--send to me, I pray you, letters if there are any of them, '--then when Monsieur makes hiseternal demand I reply: 'I have now the address of Mademoiselle, --notto give, but to send her letters. If Monsieur had the idea to cause tobe expedited a little billet? I am all at the service of Monsieur. '"

"So he wrote to her. Have you sent on the letter?"

"Alas, yes!" replied the concierge with heartfelt regret. "I kept itduring a week, hoping always to see Madame--but yesterday, even, I putit at the post. Otherwise. . . . I beg Madame to have the goodness tounderstand that I attach myself entirely to her interests. You mayrely on me. "

"It is useless, " said Lady St. Craye; "the affair _is_ ceasing tointerest me. "

"Do not say that. Wait only a little till you have heard. It is notonly Monsieur that occupies himself with Mademoiselle. Last nightarrives an aunt; also a father. They ask for Mademoiselle, areconsternated when they learn of her departing. They run all Paris atthe research of her. The father lodges at the Haute Loire. He is apriest it appears. Madame the aunt occupies the ancient apartment ofMademoiselle Desmond. "

"An instant, " said Lady St. Craye; "let me reflect. "

The concierge ostentatiously went back to her flowers. 

"You have not given _them_ Miss Desmond's address?"

"Madame forgets, " said the concierge, wounded virtue bristling in hervoice, "that I was, for the moment, devoted to the interest ofMonsieur. No. I am a loyal soul. I have told _nothing_. Only todespatch the letter. Behold all!"

"I will give myself the pleasure of offering you a little present nextweek, " said Lady St. Craye; "it is only that you should saynothing--nothing--and send no more letters. And--the address?"

"Madame knows it--by what she says. "

"Yes, but I want to know if the address you have is the same that Ihave. Hotel Chevillon, Grez sur Loing. Is it so?"

"It is exact. I thank you, Madame. Madame would do well to return_chez elle_ and to repose herself a little. Madame is all pale. "

"Is the aunt in Miss Desmond's rooms now?"

"Yes; she writes letters without end, and telegrams; and thepriest-father he runs with them like a sad old black dog that has notthe habit of towns. "

"I shall go up and see her, " said Lady St. Craye, "and I shall mostlikely give her the address. But do not give yourself anxiety. Youwill gain more by me than by any of the others. They are not rich. Me, I am, Heaven be praised. "

She went out and along the courtyard. At the foot of the wide shallowstairs she paused and leaned on the dusty banisters. 

"I feel as weak as any rat, " she said, "but I must go through withit--I must. "

She climbed the stairs, and stood outside the brown door. The nailsthat had held the little card "Miss E. Desmond" still stuck there, butonly four corners of the card remained. 

The door was not shut--it always shut unwillingly. She tapped. 

"Come in, " said a clear, pleasant voice. And she went in. 

The room was not as she had seen it on the two occasions when it hadbeen the battle ground where she and Betty fought for a man. Plaidtravelling-rugs covered the divans. A gold-faced watch in a leatherbracelet ticked on the table among scattered stationery. A lady in ashort sensible dress rose from the table, and the room was scentedwith the smell of Hungarian cigarettes. 

"I beg your pardon. I thought it was my brother-in-law. Did you callto see Miss Desmond? She is away for a short time. "

"Yes, " said Lady St. Craye. "I know. I wanted to see you. Theconcierge told me--"

"Oh, these concierges! They tell everything! It's what they wereinvented for, I believe. And you wanted--" She stopped, looked hard atthe young woman and went on: "What you want is a good stiff brandy andsoda. Here, where's the head of the pin?--I always think it such apity bonnets went out. One could undo strings. That's it. Now, putyour feet up. That's right, I'll be back in half a minute. "

Lady St. Craye found herself lying at full length on Betty's divan, her feet covered with a Tussore driving-rug, her violet-wreathed haton a table at some distance. 

She closed her eyes. It was just as well. She could get back a littlestrength--she could try to arrange coherently what she meant to say. No: it was not unfair to the girl. She ought to be taken care of. And, besides, there was no such thing as "unfair. " All was fair in--Well, she was righting for her life. All was fair when one was fighting forone's life--that was what she meant. Meantime, to lie quite still anddraw long, even breaths--telling oneself at each breath: "I am quitewell, I am quite strong--" seemed best. 

There was a sound, a dull plop, the hiss and fizzle of a spurtingsyphon, then:

"Drink this: that's right. I've got you. "

A strong arm round her shoulders--something buzzing and spitting in aglass under her nose. 

"Drink it up, there's a good child. "

She drank. A long breath. 

"Now the rest. " She was obedient. 

"Now shut your eyes and don't bother. When you're better we'll talk. "

Silence--save for the fierce scratching of a pen. 

"I'm better, " announced Lady St. Craye as the pen paused for thefolding of the third letter. 

The short skirted woman came and sat on the edge of the divan, veryupright. 

"Well then. You oughtn't to be out, you poor little thing. "

The words brought the tears to the eyes of one weak with theself-pitying weakness of convalescence. 

"I wanted--"

"Are you a friend of Betty's?"

"Yes--no--I don't know. "

"A hated rival perhaps, " said the elder woman cheerfully. "You didn'tcome to do her a good turn, anyhow, did you?"

"I--I don't know. " Again this was all that would come. 

"I do, though. Well, which of us is to begin? You see, child, thedifficulty is that we neither of us know how much the other knows andwe don't want to give ourselves away. It's so awkward to talk whenit's like that. "

"I think I know more than you do. I--you needn't think I want to hurther. I should have liked her awfully, if it hadn't been--"

"If it hadn't been for the man. Yes, I see. Who was he?"

Lady St. Craye felt absolutely defenceless. Besides, what did itmatter?"

"Mr. Vernon, " she said. 

"Ah, now we're getting to the horses! My dear child, don't look soguilty. You're not the first; you won't be the last--especially witheyes the colour his are. And so you hate Betty?"

"No, I don't. I should like to tell you all about it--all the truth. "

"You can't, " said Miss Desmond, "no woman can. But I'll give youcredit for trying to, if you'll go straight ahead. But first ofall--how long is it since you saw her?"

"Nearly a month. "

"Well; she's disappeared. Her father and I got here last night. She'sgone away and left no address. She was living with a Madame Gautierand--"

"Madame Gautier died last October, " said Lady St. Craye--"thetwenty-fifth. "

"I had a letter from her brother--it got me in Bombay. But I couldn'tbelieve it. And who has Betty been living with?"

"Look here, " said Lady St. Craye. "I came to give the whole thingaway, and hand her over to you. I know where she is. But now I don'twant to. Her father's a brute, I know. "

"Not he, " said Miss Desmond; "he's only a man and a very, very sillyone. I'll pledge you my word he'll never approach her, whatever she'sdone. It's not anything too awful for words, I'm certain. Come, tellme. "

Lady St. Craye told Betty's secret at some length. 

"Did she tell you this?"

"No. "

"He did then?"

"Yes. "

"Oh, men are darlings! The soul of honour--unsullied blades! My word!Do you mind if I smoke?"

She lighted a cigarette. 

"I suppose _I'm_ very dishonourable too, " said Lady St. Craye. 

"You? Oh no, you're only a woman!--And then?"

"Well, at last I asked her to go away, and she went. "

"Well, that was decent of her, wasn't it?"

"Yes. "

"And now you're going to tell me where she is and I'm to take her homeand keep her out of his way. Is that it?"

"I don't know, " said Lady St. Craye very truly, "why I came to you atall. Because it's all no good. He's written and proposed for her toher father--and if she cares--"

"Well, if she cares--and he cares--Do you really mean that _you'd_care to marry a man who's in love with another woman?"

"I'd marry him if he was in love with fifty other women. "

"In that case, " said Miss Desmond, "I should say you were the verywife for him. "

"_She_ isn't, " said Lady St. Craye sitting up. "I feel like a sillyschool-girl talking to you like this. I think I'll go now. I'm notreally so silly as I seem. I've been ill--influenza, you know--and Igot so frightfully tired. And I don't think I'm so strong as I used tobe. I've always thought I was strong enough to play any part I wantedto play. But--you've been very kind. I'll go--" She lay back. 

"Don't be silly, " said Miss Desmond briskly. "You _are_ a school-girlcompared with me, you know. I suppose you've been trying to play therôle of the designing heroine--to part true lovers and so on, and thenyou found you couldn't. "

"They're _not_ true lovers, " said Lady St. Craye eagerly; "that's justit. She'd never make him happy. She's too young and too innocent. Andwhen she found out what a man like him is like, she'd break her heart. And he told me he'd be happier with me than he ever had been withher. "

"Was that true, or--?"

"Oh, yes, it was true enough, though he said it. You've met him--hetold me. But you don't know him. "

"I know his kind though, " said Miss Desmond. "And so you love him verymuch indeed, and you don't care for anything else, --and you think youunderstand him, --and you could forgive him everything? Then you mayget him yet, if you care so very much--that is, if Betty doesn't. "

"She doesn't. She thinks she does, but she doesn't. If only he hadn'twritten to her--"

"My dear, " said Miss Desmond, "I was a fool myself once, about a manwith eyes his colour. You can't tell me anything that I don't know. Does he know how much you care?"

"Yes. "

"Ah, that's a pity--still--Well, is there anything else you want totell me?"

"I don't want to tell anyone anything. Only--when she said she'd goaway, I advised her where to go--and I told her of a quiet place--andMr. Temple's there. He's the other man who admires her. "

"I see. How Machiavelian of you!"--Miss Desmond touched the youngerwoman's hand with brusque gentleness--"And--?"

"And I didn't quite tell her the truth about Mr. Vernon and me, " saidLady St. Craye, wallowing in the abject joys of the confessional. "AndI am a beast and not fit to live. But, " she added with the truepenitent's instinct of self-defence, "I _know_ it's only--oh, I don'tknow what--not love, with her. And it's my life. "

"Yes. And what about him?"

"It's not love with him. At least it is--but she'd bore him. It'sreally his waking-up time. He's been playing the game just forcounters all the while. Now he's learning to play with gold. "

"And it'll stay learnt. I see, " said Miss Desmond. "Look here, I likeyou. I know we shouldn't have said all we have if you weren't ill, andI weren't anxious. But I'm with you in one thing. I don't want him tomarry Betty. She wouldn't understand an artist in emotion. Is thisTemple straight?"

"As a yardstick. "

"And as wooden? Well, that's better. I'm on your side. But--we've beentalking without the veils on--tell me one thing. Are you sure youcould get him if Betty were out of the way?"

"He kissed me once--since he's loved her, " said Lady St. Craye, "andthen I knew I could. He liked me better than he liked her--in all theother ways--before. I'm a shameless idiot; it's really only becauseI'm so feeble. "

She rose and stood before the glass, putting on her hat. 

"I do respect a woman who has the courage to speak the truth toanother woman, " said Miss Desmond. "I hope you'll get him--though it'snot a very kind wish. "

Lady St. Craye let herself go completely in a phrase whose memorystung and rankled for many a long day. 

"Ah, " she said, "even if he gets tired of me, I shall have got hischildren. You don't know what it is to want a child. Good-bye. "

"Good-bye, " said Miss Desmond. "No--of course I don't. "

CHAPTER XXV. 

THE FOREST. 

Nothing lifts the heart like the sense of a great self-sacrifice noblymade. Betty was glad that she could feel so particularly noble. It wasa great help. 

"He was mine, " she told herself; "he meant to be--And I have given himup to her. It hurts--yes--but I did the right thing. "

She thought she hoped that he would soon forget her. And almost allthat was Betty tried quite sincerely, snatching at every help, toforget him. 

Sometimes the Betty that Betty did not want to be would, quitedeliberately and of set purpose, take out the nest of hungry memories, look at them, play with them, and hand over her heart for them to feedon. But always when she had done this she felt, afterwards, a littlesorry, a little ashamed. It was too like the diary at Long Barton. 

Consciously or unconsciously one must make some concessions to everysituation or every situation would be impossible. Temple washere--interested, pleased to see her, glad to talk to her. But he wasnot at all inclined to be in love with her: that had been only a sillyfancy of hers--in Paris. He had made up his mind by now who it wasthat he cared for. And it wasn't Betty. Probably she hadn't even beenone of the two he came to Grez to think about. He was only a goodfriend--and she wanted a good friend. If he were not just a goodfriend the situation would be impossible. And Betty chose that thesituation should be possible. For it was pleasant. It was a shield anda shelter from all the thoughts that she wanted to hide from. 

"If she thinks I'm going to break my heart about _him_, she'smistaken. And so's He. I must be miserable for a bit, " said Bettybravely, "but I'll not be miserable forever, so he needn't think it. Of course, I shall never care for anyone ever again--unless he were tolove me for years and years before he ever said a word, and then Imight say I would try. --_And_ try. But fall in love?--Never again! Oh, good gracious, there he is, --and I've not _begun_ to get ready. "

Temple was whistling _Deux Amants_ very softly in the courtyard below. She put her head out of the window. 

"I shan't be two minutes, " she said, "You might get the basket fromMadame; and my sketching things are on the terrace all ready strappedup. "

The hoofs of the smart gray pony slipped and rattled on thecobble-stones of the hotel entry. 

"Au revoir: amuse yourselves well, my children. " Madame Chevillonstood, one hand on fat hip, the other shading old eyes that they mightwatch the progress of the cart up the blinding whiteness of thevillage street. 

"To the forest, and yet again to the forest and to the forest always, "she said, turning into the darkened billiard room. "Marie, beware, thou, of the forest. The good God created it express for thelovers, --but it is permitted to the devil to promenade himself therealso. "

"Those two there, " said Marie--"it is very certain that they are inlove?"

"How otherwise?" said Madame. "The good God made us women that the menshould be in love with us--and afterwards, to take care of thechildren. There is no other use that a man has for a woman. Friendship? The Art?--Bah! When a man wants those he demands them of aman. Of a woman he demands but love, and one gives it to him--onegives it to him without question!"

The two who had departed for the forest drove on through the swimming, spinning heat, in silence. 

It was not till they reached the little old well by Marlotte thatBetty spoke. 

"Don't let's work to-day, Mr. Temple, " she said. "My hands are so hotI could never hold a brush. And your sketch is really finished, youknow. "

"What would you like to do?" asked Temple: "river?"

"Oh, no, --not now that we've started for the forest! Its feelingswould be hurt if we turned back. I am sure it loves us to love it, although it is so big--Like God, you know. "

"Yes: I'm sure it does. Do you really think God cares?"

"Of course, " said Betty, "because everything would be so silly if Hedidn't, you know. I believe He likes us to love him, and what's more, I believe He likes us to love all the pretty things He's made--treesand rivers and sunsets and seas. "

"And each other, " said Temple, and flushed to the ears: "human beings, I mean, of course, " he added hastily. 

"Of course, " said Betty, unconscious of the flush; "but religion tellsyou that--it doesn't tell you about the little things. It does sayabout herbs of the field and the floods clapping their hands and allthat--but that's only His works praising Him, not us loving all Hisworks. I think He's most awfully pleased when we love some little, nice, tiny thing that He never thought we'd notice. "

"Did your father teach you to think like this?"

"Oh, dear no!" said Betty. "He doesn't like the little pretty things. "

"It's odd, " said Temple. "Look at those yellow roses all over thathideous villa. "

"My step-father would only see the villa. Well, must we work to-day?"

"What would you like to do?"

"I should like to go to those big rocks--the Rochers des Demoiselles, aren't they?--and tie up the pony, and climb up, and sit in a blackshadow and look out over the green tops of the trees. You see thingswhen you're idle that you never see when you're working, even ifyou're trying to paint those very things. "

So, by and by, the gray pony was unharnessed and tied to a tree in acool, grassy place where he also could be happy, and the two otherstook the winding stony path. 

A turn in the smooth-worn way brought them to a platform overhangingthe precipice that fell a sheer thirty feet to the tops of the treeson the slope below. White, silvery sand carpeted the ledge, and on thesand the shadow of a leaning rock fell blue. 

"Here" said Betty, and sank down. Her sketchbook scooped the sand withits cover. "Oh, I _am_ hot!" She threw off her hat. 

"You don't look it, " said Temple, and pulled the big bottle of weakclaret and water from the luncheon basket. 

"Drink!" he said, offering the little glass when he had filled it. 

Betty drank, in little sips. 

"How extraordinarily nice it is to drink when you're thirsty, " shesaid, "and how heavenly this shadow is. "

A long silence. Temple filled and lighted a pipe. From a slope of drygrass a little below them came the dusty rattle of grasshoppers' talk. 

"It is very good here, " said Betty. "Oh, how glad I am I came awayfrom Paris. Everything looks different here--I mean the things thatlook as if they mattered there don't matter here--and the things thatdidn't matter there--oh, here, they do!"

"Yes, " said Temple, making little mounds of sand with the edge of hishand as he lay, "I never expected to have such days in this world asI've had here with you. We've grown to be very good friends here, haven't we?"

"We were very good friends in Paris, " said Betty, remembering theletter that had announced his departure. 

"But it wasn't the same, " he persisted. "When did we talk in Paris aswe've talked here?"

"I talked to you, even in Paris, more than I've ever talked to anyoneelse, all the same, " said Betty. 

"Thank you, " he said; "that's the nicest thing you've ever said tome. "

"It wasn't meant to be nice, " said Betty; "it's true. Don't you knowthere are some people you never can talk to without wondering whatthey'll think of you, and whether you hadn't better have saidsomething else? It's nothing to do with whether you like them or not, "she went on, thinking of talks with Vernon, many talks--and in all ofthem she had been definitely and consciously on guard. "You may likepeople quite frightfully, and yet you can't talk to them. "

"Yes, " he said, "but you couldn't talk to a person you disliked, couldyou? Real talk, I mean?"

"Of course not, " said Betty. "Do you know I'm dreadfully hungry!"

It was after lunch that Temple said:

"When are you going home, Miss Desmond?" She looked up, for his useof her name was rare. 

"I don't know: some time, " she answered absently. But the question ranthrough her mind like a needle drawing after it the thread on whichwere strung all the little longings for Long Barton--for the familiarfields and flowers, that had gathered there since she first saw thesilver may and the golden broom at Bourron station. That was nearly amonth ago. What a month it had been--the gleaming river, the neatintimate simplicity of the little culture, white roads, and roses androcks, and more than all--trees, and trees and trees again. 

And with all this--Temple. He lodged at Montigny, true. And she atGrez. But each day brought to her door the best companion in theworld. He had never even asked how she came to be at Grez. After thatfirst, "Where's your party?" he had guarded his lips. It had seemed sonatural, and so extremely fortunate that he should be here. If she hadbeen all alone she would have allowed herself to think too much ofVernon--of what might have been. 

"I am going to England next week!" he said. Betty was shocked toperceive that this news hurt her. Well, why shouldn't it hurt her? Shewasn't absolutely insensible to friendship, she supposed. Andsensibility to friendship was nothing to be ashamed of. On thecontrary. 

"I shall miss you most awfully, " said she with the air of oneflaunting a flag. 

"I wish you'd go home, " he said. "Haven't you had enough of yourexperiment, or whatever it was, yet?"

"I thought you'd given up interfering, " she said crossly. At least shemeant to speak crossly. 

"I thought I could say anything to you now without your--your notunderstanding. "

"So you can. " She was suddenly not cross again. 

"Ah, no I can't, " he said. "I want to say things to you that I can'tsay here. Won't you go home? Won't you let me come to see you there?Say I may. You will let me?"

If she said Yes--she refused to pursue that train of thought anotherinch. If she said No--then a sudden end--and forever an end--to thisgood companionship. "I wish I had never, never seen _Him_!" she toldherself. 

Then she found that she was speaking. 

"The reason I was all alone in Paris, " she was saying. The reason tooka long time to expound. --The shadow withdrew itself and they had toshift the camp just when it came to the part about Betty's firstmeeting with Temple himself. 

"And so, " she said, "I've done what I meant to do--and I'm a hatefulliar--and you'll never want to speak to me again. "

She rooted up a fern and tore it into little ribbons. 

"Why have you told me all this?" he said slowly. 

"I don't know, " said she. 

"It is because you care, a little bit about--about my thinking well ofyou?"

"I can't care about that, or I shouldn't have told you, should I?Let's get back home. The pony's lost by this time, I expect. "

"Is it because you don't want to have any--any secrets between us?"

"Not in the least, " said Betty, chin in the air. "I shouldn't _dream_of telling you my secrets--or anyone else of course, I mean, " sheadded politely. 

He sighed. "Well, " he said, "I wish you'd go home. "

"Why don't you say you're disappointed in me, and that you despise me, and that you don't care about being friends any more, with a girlwho's told lies and taken her aunt's money and done everything wrongyou can think of? Let's go back. I don't want to stay here any more, with you being silently contemptuous as hard as ever you can. Whydon't you say something?"

"I don't want to say the only thing I want to say. I don't want to sayit here. Won't you go home and let me come and tell you at LongBarton?"

"You do think me horrid. Why don't you say so?"

"No. I don't. "

"Then it's because you don't care what I am or what I do. I thought aman's friendship didn't mean much!" She crushed the fern into a roughball and threw it over the edge of the rock. 

"Oh, hang it all, " said Temple. "Look here, Miss Desmond. I came awayfrom Paris because I didn't know what was the matter with me. I didn'tknow who it was I really cared about. And before I'd been here onesingle day, I knew. And then I met you. And I haven't said a word, because you're here alone--and besides I wanted you to get used totalking to me and all that. And now you say I don't care. No, confoundit all, it's too much! I wanted to ask you to marry me. And I'd havewaited any length of time till there was a chance for me. " He hadalmost turned his back on her, and leaning his chin on his elbow waslooking out over the tree-tops far below. "And now you've gone andrushed me into asking you _now_, when I know there isn't the leastchance for me, --and anyhow I ought to have held my tongue! And nowit's all no good, and it's your fault. Why did you say I didn't care?"

"You knew it was coming, " Betty told herself, "when he asked if hemight come to Long Barton to see you. You knew it. You might havestopped it. And you didn't. And now what are you going to do?"

What she did was to lean back to reach another fern--to pluck andsmooth its fronds. 

"Are you very angry?" asked Temple forlornly. 

"No, " said Betty; "how could I be? But I wish you hadn't. It's spoiledeverything. "

"Do you think I don't know all that?"

"I wish I could, " said Betty very sincerely, "but--"

"Of course, " he said bitterly. "I knew that. "

"He doesn't care about me, " said Betty: "he's engaged to someoneelse. "

"And you care very much?" He kept his face turned away. 

"I don't know, " said Betty; "sometimes I think I'm getting not to careat all. "

"Then--look here: may I ask you again some time, and we'll go on justlike we have been?"

"No, " said Betty. "I'm going back to England at the end of the week. Besides, you aren't quite sure it's me you care for. --At least youweren't when you came away from Paris. How can you be sure you're surenow?"

He turned and looked at her. 

"I beg your pardon, " she said instantly. "I think I didn't understand. Let's go back now, shall we?"

"For Heaven's sake, " he said, "don't let this break up everything!Don't avoid me in the little time that's left. I won't talk about itany more--I won't worry you--"

"Don't be silly, " she said, and she smiled at him a little sadly; "youtalk as though I didn't know you. "

CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE MIRACLE. 

It seemed quite dark down in the forest--or rather, it seemed, afterthe full good light that lay upon the summit of the rocks, like thegray dream-twilight under the eyelids of one who dozes in face of adying fire. 

"Don't let's go straight back to Grez, " said Betty when the pony washarnessed, "let's go on to Fontainebleau and have dinner and driveback by moonlight. Don't you think it would be fun? We've never donethat. "

"Thank you, " he said. "You _are_ good. "

His eyes met hers in the green shadow, and she was satisfied becausehe had understood that this was her reply to his appeal to her "not toavoid him in the little time there was left. "

Both were gay as they drove along the golden roads, gayer than everthey had been. The nearness of a volcano has never been a bar togaiety. Dinner was a joyous feast, and when it was over, and the otherguests had strolled out, Temple sang all the songs Betty liked best. Betty played for him. It was all very pleasant, and both pretended, quite beautifully, that they were the best of friends, and that it hadnever, never been a question of anything else. The pretence lastedthrough all the moonlight of the home drive--lasted indeed till thepony was trotting along the straight avenue that leads down into Grez. And even then it was not Temple who broke it. It was Betty, and shelaid her hand on his arm. 

"Look here, " she said. "I've been thinking about it ever since yousaid it. And I'm not going to let it spoil anything. Only I don't wantyou to think I don't understand. And I'm most awfully proud that youshould. . . . I am really. And I'd rather be liked by you than byanyone--"

"Almost, " said Temple a little bitterly. 

"I don't feel sure about that part of it--really. One feels and thinkssuch a lot of different things--and they all contradict everythingelse, till one doesn't know what anything means, or what it is onereally--I can't explain. But I don't want you to think your havingtalked about it makes any difference. At least I don't mean that atall. What I mean is that of course I like you ever so much better nowI know that you like me, and--oh, I don't want to--I don't want you tothink it's all no good, because really and truly I don't know. "

All this time she had kept her hand on his wrist. 

Now he laid his other hand over it. 

"Dear, " he said, "that's all I want, and more than I hoped for now. Iwon't say another word about it--ever, if you'd rather not, --only ifever you feel that it is me, and not that other chap, then you'll tellme, won't you?"

"I'll tell you now, " said Betty, "that I wish with all my heart it_was_ you, and not the other. "

When he had said goodnight at the deserted door of the courtyard Bettyslipped through the trees to her pavilion. The garden seemed morecrowded with trees than it had ever been. It was almost as though newtrees from the forest had stolen in while she was at Fontainebleau, and joined the ranks of those that stood sentinel round the pavilion. There was a lamp in the garden room--as usual. Its light poured outand lay like a yellow carpet on the terrace, and lent to the foliagebeyond that indescribable air of festivity, of light-heartedness thatgreen leaves can always borrow from artificial light. 

"I'll just see if there are any letters, " she told herself. "Therealways might be: from Aunt Julia or Miss Voscoe or--someone. "

She went along the little passage that led to the stairs. The doorthat opened from it into the garden room was narrowly ajar. A slice oflight through the chink stood across the passage. 

_Oh_!

There was someone in the room. Someone was speaking. She knew thevoice. "She must be in soon, " it said. It was her Aunt Julia's voice. She stopped dead. And there was silence in the room. 

Oh! to be caught like this! In a trap. And just when she had decidedto go home! She would not be caught. She would steal up to her room, get her money, leave enough on the table to pay her bill, and _go_. She could walk to Marlotte--and go off by train in the morning toBrittany--anywhere. She would not be dragged back like a prisoner tobe all the rest of her life with a hateful old man who detested her. Aunt Julia thought she was very clever. Well, she would just find outthat she wasn't. Who was she talking to? Not Madame, for she spoke inEnglish. To some one from Paris? Who could have betrayed her? Only oneperson knew. Lady St. Craye. Well, Lady St. Craye should not betrayher for nothing. She would not go to Brittany: she would go back toParis. That woman should be taught what it costs to play the traitor. 

All this in the quite small pause before her aunt's voice spoke again. 

"Unless she's got wind of our coming and flown, " it said. 

"Our" coming? Who was the other?

Betty was eavesdropping then? How dishonourable! Well, it is. And shewas. 

"I hope to Heaven she's safe, " said another voice. Oh--it was herstep-father! He had come--Then he must know everything! She moved, quite without meaning to move; her knee touched the door and itcreaked. Very very faintly, but it creaked. Would they hear? Had theyheard? No--the aunt's voice again:

"The whole thing's inexplicable to me! I don't understand it. You letBetty go to Paris. "

"By your advice. "

"By my advice, but also because you wanted her to be happy. "

"Yes--Heaven knows I wanted her to be happy. " The old man's voice wassadder than Betty had ever heard it. 

"So we found Madame Gautier for her--and when Madame Gautier dies, shedoesn't write to you, or wire to you, to come and find her a newchaperone. Why?"

"I can't imagine why. "

"Don't you think it may have been because she was afraid of you, thought you'd simply make her come back to Long Barton?"

"It would surely have been impossible for her to imagine that I shouldlessen the time which I had promised her, on account of an unfortunateaccident. She knows the depth of my affection for her. No, no--dependupon it there must have been some other reason for the deceit. Ialmost fear to conjecture what the reason may have been. Do you thinkit possible that she has been seeing that man again?"

There was a sound as of a chair impatiently pushed back. Betty flednoiselessly to the stairs. No footstep followed the movement of thechair. She crept back. 

"--when you do see her?" her aunt was asking, "I suppose you mean toheap reproaches on her, and take her home in disgrace?"

"I hope I shall have strength given me to do my duty, " said theReverend Cecil. 

"Have you considered what your duty is?"

"It must be my duty to reprove, to show her her deceit in its fullenormity. "

"You'll enjoy that, won't you? It'll gratify your sense of power. You'll stand in the place of God to the child, and you'll be glad tosee her humbled and ashamed. "

"Because a thing is painful to me it is none the less my duty. "

"Nor any the more, " snapped Miss Desmond; "nor any the more! That'swhat you won't see. She knows you don't care about her, and that's whyshe kept away from you as long as she could. "

"She can't know it. It isn't true. "

"She thinks it is. "

"Do _you_ think so? Do _you_ imagine I don't care for her? Have youbeen poisoning her mind and--"

"Oh, don't let's talk about poison!" said Miss Desmond. "If she's lostaltogether it won't matter to you. You'll have done your duty. "

"If she's lost I--if she were lost I should not care to be saved. I amaware that the thought is sinful. But I fear that it is so. "

"Of course, " said Miss Desmond. "She's not your child--why should youcare? You never had a child. "

"What have I done to you that you should try to torture me like this?"It was her step-father's voice, but Betty hardly knew it. "For pity'ssake, woman, be quiet! Let me bear what I have to bear without yourchatter. "

"I'm sorry, " said Miss Desmond very gently. "Forgive me if I didn'tunderstand. And you do really care about her a little?"

"Care about her a little! She's the only living thing I do carefor--or ever have cared for except one. Oh, it is like a woman to castit up at me as a reproach that I have no child! Why have I no child?Because the woman whom Almighty God made for my child's mother wastaken from me--in her youth--before she was mine. Her name was Lizzie. And my Lizzie, my little Lizzie that's lied and deceived us, she _is_my child--the one _we_ should have had. She's my heart's blood. Do youthink I want to scold her; do you think I want to humble her? Do younot perceive how my own heart will be torn? But it is my duty. I willnot spare the rod. And she will understand as you never could. Oh, mylittle Lizzie!--Oh, pray God she is safe! If it please God to restoreher safely to me, I will not yield to the wicked promptings of my ownselfish affection. I will show her her sin, and we will pray forforgiveness together. Yes, I will not shrink, even if it break myheart--I will tell her--"

"I should tell her, " said Miss Desmond, "just what you've told me. "

The old man was walking up and down the room. Betty could hear everymovement. 

"It's been the struggle of my life not to spoil her--not to let mylove for her lead me to neglect her eternal welfare--not to lessen hermodesty by my praises--not to condone the sin because of my love forthe sinner. My love has not been selfish. --It has been the struggle ofmy life not to let my affection be a snare to her. "

"Then I must say, " said Miss Desmond, "that you might have been betteremployed. "

"Thank God I have done my duty! You don't understand. But my Lizziewill understand. "

"Yes, she will understand, " cried Betty, bursting open the door andstanding between the two with cheeks that flamed. "I do understand, Father dear! Auntie, I don't understand _you_! You're cruel, --and it'snot like you. Will you mind going away, please?"

The cruel aunt smiled, and moved towards the door. As she passed Bettyshe whispered: "I thought you were _never_ going to come from behindthat door. I couldn't have kept it up much longer. "

Then she went out and closed the door firmly. 

Betty went straight to her step-father and put her arms round hisneck. 

"You do forgive me--you will forgive me, won't you?" she saidbreathlessly. 

He put an arm awkwardly round her. 

"There's nothing you could do that I couldn't forgive, " he said in achoked voice. "But it is my duty not to--"

She interrupted him by drawing back to look at him, but she kept hisarm where it was, by her hand on his. 

"Father, " she said, "I've heard everything you've been saying. It's nouse scolding me, because you can't possibly say anything that Ihaven't said to myself a thousand times. Sit down and let me tell youeverything, every single thing! I _did_ mean to come home this week, and tell you; I truly did. I wish I'd gone home before. "

"Oh, Lizzie, " said the old man, "how could you? How could you?"

"I didn't understand. I didn't know. I was a blind idiot. Oh, Father, you'll see how different I'll be now! Oh, if one of us had died--andI'd never known!"

"Known what, my child? Oh, thank God I have you safe! Known what?"

"Why, that you--how fond you are of me. "

"You didn't know _that_?"

"I--I wasn't always sure, " Betty hastened to say. A miracle hadhappened. She could read now in his eyes the appeal that she hadalways misread before. "But now I shall always be sure--always. AndI'm going to be such a good daughter to you--you'll see--if you'llonly forgive me. And you will forgive me. Oh, you don't know how Itrust you now!"

"Didn't you always?"

"Not enough--not nearly enough. But I do now. Let me tell you--Don'tlet me ever be afraid of you--oh, don't let me!" She had pushed himgently into a chair and was half kneeling on the floor beside him. 

"Have you ever been afraid of me?"

"Oh, I don't know; a little perhaps sometimes! You don't know howsilly I am. But not now. You _are_ glad to see me?"

"Lizzie, " he said, "God knows how glad I am! But it's my duty to askyou at once whether you've done anything wrong. "

"Everything wrong you can think of!" she answered enthusiastically, "only nothing really wicked, of course. I'll tell you all about it. And oh, do remember you can't think worse of me than I do! Oh, it'sglorious not to be afraid!"

"Of me?" His tone pleaded again. 

"No, no--of anything! Of being found out. I'm glad you've come for me. I'm glad I've got to tell you everything--I did mean to go home nextweek, but I'm glad it's like this. Because now I know how much youcare, and I might never have found that out if I hadn't listened atthe door like a mean, disgraceful cat. I ought to be miserable becauseI've done wrong--but I'm not. I can't be. I'm really most frightfullyhappy. "

"Thank God you can say that, " he said, timidly stroking her hair withthe hand that she was not holding. "Now I'm not afraid of anything youmay have to tell me, my child--my dear child. "

 * * * * *

To four persons the next day was one of the oddest in their lives. 

Arriving early to take Betty to finish her sketch, the stricken Templewas greeted on the doorstep by a manly looking lady in gold-rimmedspectacles, short skirts, serviceable brown boots and a mushroom hat. 

"I know who you are, " said she; "you're Mr. Temple. I'm Betty Desmond'saunt. Would you like to take me on the river? Betty is busy this morningmaking the acquaintance of her step-father. She's taken him out in thelittle cart. "

"I see, " said Temple. "I shall be delighted to take you on the river. "

"Nice young man. You don't ask questions. An excellent trait. "

"An acquired characteristic, I assure you, " said Temple, remembering hisfirst meeting with Betty. 

"Then you won't be able to transmit it to your children. That's a pity. However, since you don't ask I'll tell you. The old man has'persistently concealed his real nature' from Betty. You'd think it wasimpossible, living in the same house all these years. Last night shefound him out. She's as charmed with the discovery as a girl child witha doll that opens and shuts its eyes--or a young man with the nonentityhe calls his ideal. Come along. She'll spend the morning playing withher new toy. Cheer up. You shall see her at _dejeuner_. "

"_I_ do not need cheering, " said the young man. And I don't want you totell me things you'd rather not. On the contrary--"

"You want me not to tell you the things I'd rather tell you?"

"No: I should like to tell you all about--"

"All about yourself. My dear young man, there is nothing I enjoy more;the passion for confidences is my only vice. It was really to indulgethat that I asked you to come on the river with me. "

"I thought, " said Temple as they reached the landing stage, "thatperhaps you had asked me to console me for not seeing your niece thismorning. "

"Thank you kindly, " Miss Desmond stepped lightly into the boat. "Irather like compliments, especially when you're solidly built--likemyself. Oh, yes, I'll steer; pull hard, bow, she's got no way on heryet, and the stream's strong just here under the bridge. I gather thatyou've been proposing to my niece. "

"I didn't mean to, " said Temple, pulling a racing stroke in hisagitation. 

"Gently, gently! The Diamond Sculls aren't at stake. She led you on, youmean?"

He rested on his oars a moment and laughed. 

"What is there about you that makes me feel that I've known you all mylife?"

"Possibly it's my enormous age. Or it may be that I nursed you when youwere a baby. I have nursed one or two in my time, though I mayn't lookit. --So Betty entrapped you into a proposal?"

"Are you trying to make me angry? It's a dangerous river. Can you swim. "

"Like any porpoise. But of course I misunderstand people if they won'texplain themselves. You needn't tremble like that. I'll be gentle withyou. "

"If I tremble it's with pleasure, " said Temple. 

"Come, moderate your transports, and unfold your tale. My ears are red, I know, but they are small, well-shaped and sympathetic. "

"Well then, " said Temple; and the tale began. By the time it was endedthe boat was at a standstill on the little backwater below the prettiesof the sluices. 

There was a silence. 

"Well?" said Temple. 

"Well, " said Miss Desmond, dipping her hand in the water--"what a streamthis is, to be sure!--Well, your means are satisfactory and you seem tome to have behaved quite beautifully. I don't think I ever heard of suchprofoundly correct conduct. "

"If I've made myself out a prig, " said Temple, "I'm sorry. I could tellyou lots of things. "

"Please spare me! Why are people always so frightfully ashamed of havingbehaved like decent human beings? I esteem you immensely. "

"I'd rather you liked me. "

"Well, so I do. But I like lots of people I don't esteem. If I'd marriedanyone it would probably have been some one like that. But for Bettyit's different. I shouldn't have needed to esteem my own husband. But Imust esteem hers. "

"I'll try not to deserve your esteem more than I'm obliged, " saidTemple, "but your liking--what can I do to deserve that--?"

"Go on as you've begun, my dear young man, and you'll be Aunt Julia'sfavourite nephew. No--don't blush. It's an acknowledgement of a tenderspeech that I always dispense with. "

"Advise me, " said he, red to the ears and hands. "She doesn't care forme, at present. What can I do?"

"What most of us have to do--when we want anything worth wanting. Wait. We're going home the day after to-morrow. If you turn up at Long Bartonabout the middle of September--you might come down for the HarvestFestival; it's the yearly excitement. That's what I should do. "

"Must I wait so long as that?" he asked. "Why?"

"Let me whisper in your ear, " said Miss Desmond, loud above the chatterof the weir. "Long Barton is very dull! Now let's go back. "

"I don't want her to accept me because she's bored. "

"No more do I. But one sees the proportions of things better when one'sdull. And--yes. I esteem you; I like you. You are ingenuous, andinnocuous. --No, really that was a yielding to the devil of alliteration. I mean you are a real good sort. The other man has the harmlessness ofthe serpent. As for me, I have the wisdom of the dove. You profit by itand come to Long Barton in September. "

"It seems like a plot to catch her, " said Temple. 

"A friend of yours told me you were straight. And you are. I thoughtperhaps she flattered you. "

"Who?--No, I'm not to ask questions. "

"Lady St. Craye. "

"Do you know, " he said, slowly pulling downstream, "there's one thing Ididn't tell you. I came away from Paris because I wasn't quite sure thatI wasn't in love with _her_. "

"Not you, " said Miss Desmond. "She'd never have suited you. And nowshe'll throw herself away on the man with the green eyes and the past. Imean Pasts. And it's a pity. She's a woman after my own heart. "

"She's extraordinarily charming, " said Temple with a very small sigh. 

"Yes extraordinarily, as you say. And so you came away from Paris! Ibegin to think _you_ have a little of the wisdom of the dove too. Pullnow--or we shall be late for breakfast. "

He pulled. 

 * * * * *

"Now _that_, " said the Reverend Cecil that evening to his sister-in-law, "that is the kind of youth I should wish to see my Lizzie select for herhelp-mate. "

"Well, " said Miss Desmond, "if you keep that wish strictly to yourself, I should think it had a better chance than most wishes of beinggratified. "

CHAPTER XXVII

THE PINK SILK STORY. 

To call on the concierge at Betty's old address, and to ask for news ofher had come to seem to Vernon the unbroken habit of a life-time. Therenever was any news: there never would be any news. But there alwaysmight be. 

The days went by, days occupied in these fruitless gold-edged enquiries, in the other rose-accompanied enquiries after the health of Lady St. Craye, and in watching for the postman who should bring the answer tohis formal proposal of marriage. 

To his deep surprise and increasing disquietude, no answer came. Was theReverend Cecil dead, or merely inabordable? Had Betty despised his offertoo deeply to answer it? The lore learned in, as it seemed, another lifeassured him that a woman never despises an offer too much to say "No" toit. 

Watch for the postman. Look at Betty's portrait. Call on the concierge. (He had been used to dislike the employment of dirty instruments. ) Callon the florist. (There was a decency in things, even if all one's beingwere contemptibly parched for the sight of another woman. ) Call andenquire for the poor Jasmine Lady. Studio--think of Betty--look at herportrait--pretend to work. Meals at fairly correct intervals. Call onthe concierge. Look at the portrait again. Such were the recurrentincidents of Vernon's life. Between the incidents came a padding offutile endeavour. Work, he had always asserted, was the cure forinconvenient emotions. Only now the cure was not available. 

And the postman brought nothing interesting, except a letter, post-markDenver, Col. , a letter of tender remonstrance from the Brittany girl, Miss Van Tromp. 

Then came the morning when the concierge, demurely assuring him of herdevotion to his interests, offered to post a letter. No bribe--and hewas shameless in his offers--could wring more than that from her. Andeven the posting of the letter cost a sum that the woman chuckled overthrough all the days during which the letter lay in her locked drawer, under Lady St. Craye's bank note and the divers tokens of "_cemonsieur's_" interest in the intrigue--whatever the intrigue mightbe--its details were not what interested. 

Vernon went home, pulled the table into the middle of the bare studioand wrote. This letter wrote itself without revision. 

 "Why did you go away?" it said. "Where are you? where can I see you? What has happened? Have your people found out?"

A long pause--the end of the pen bitten. 

 "I want to have no lies or deceit any more between us. I must tell you the truth. I have never been engaged to anyone. But you would not let me see you without that, so I let you think it. Will you forgive me? Can you? For lying to you? If you can't I shall know that nothing matters at all. But if you can forgive me--then I shall let myself hope for impossible things. 

 "Dear, whether it's all to end here or not, let me write this once without thinking of anything but you and me. I have written to your father asking his permission to ask you to marry me. To you I want to say that I love you, love you, love you--and I have never loved anyone else. That's part of my punishment for--I don't know what exactly. Playing with fire, I suppose. Dear--can you love me? Ever since I met you at Long Barton" (Pause: what about Miss Van Tromp? Nothing, nothing, nothing!) "I've not thought of anything but you. I want you for my very own. There is no one like you, my love, my Princess. 

 "You'll write to me. Even if you don't care a little bit you'll write. Dear, I hardly dare hope that you care, but I daren't fear that you don't. I shall count the minutes till I get your answer. I feel like a schoolboy. 

 "Dear it's my very heart I'm sending you here. If I didn't love you, love you, love you I could write a better letter, tell you better how I love you. Write now. You will write?

 "Did someone tell you something or write you something that made you go away? It's not true, whatever it is. Nothing's true, but that I want you. As I've never wanted anything. Let me see you. Let me tell you. I'll explain everything--if anyone _has_ been telling lies. 

 "If you don't care enough to write, I don't care enough to go on living. Oh, my dear Dear, all the words and phrases have been used up before. There's nothing new to _say_, I know. But what's in my heart for you--that's new, that's all that matters--that and what your heart might hold for me. Does it? Tell me. If I can't have your love, I can't bear my life. And I won't. --You'll think this letter isn't like me. It isn't, I know. But I can't help it. I am a new man: and you have made me. Dear, --can't you love the man you've made? Write, write, write!

 "Yours--as I never thought I could be anyone's, "Eustace Vernon. "

"It's too long, " he said, "most inartistic, but I won't re-write it. Contemptible ass! If she cares it won't matter. If she doesn't, it won'tmatter either. "

And that was the letter that lay in the locked drawer for a week. Andthrough that week the watching for the postman went on--went on. And theenquiries, mechanically. 

And no answer came at all, to either of his letters. Had the Conciergedeceived him? Had she really no address to which to send the letter?

"Are you sure that you posted the letter?"

"Altogether, monsieur, " said the concierge, fingering the key of thedrawer that held it. 

And the hot ferment of Paris life seethed and fretted all around him. IfBetty were at Long Barton--oh, the dewy gray grass in the warren--andthe long shadows on the grass!

Three days more went by. 

"You have posted the letter?"

"But yes, Monsieur. Be tranquil. Without doubt it was a letter thatshould exact time for the response. "

It was on the fifth day that he met Mimi Chantal, the prettiest model onthe left bank. 

"Is monsieur by chance painting the great picture which shall put himbetween Velasquez and Caran d'Ache on the last day?"

"I am painting nothing, " said Vernon. "And why is the prettiest model inParis not at work?"

"I was in lateness but a little quarter of an hour, Monsieur. And beholdme--chucked. "

"It wasn't for the first time, then?"

"A nothing one or two days last week. Monsieur had better begin to paintthat _chef d'oeuvre_--to-day even. It isn't often that the prettiestmodel in Paris is free to sit at a moment's notice. "

"But, " said Vernon, "I haven't an idea for a picture even. It is too hotfor ideas. I'm going into the country at the end of the month, to dolandscape. "

"To paint a picture it is then absolutely necessary to have an idea?"

"An idea--or a commission. "

"There is always something that lacks! With me it is the technique thatis to seek; with you the ideas! Otherwise we should both be masters. Foryou have technique both hands full; I have ideas, me. "

"Tell me some of them, " said Vernon, strolling along by her side. It wasnot his habit to stroll along beside models. But to-day he was frettedand chafed by long waiting for that answer to his letter. Anythingseemed better than the empty studio where one waited. 

"Here is one! I have the idea that artists have no eyes. How they poseme ever as l'Été or La Source or Leda, or that clumsy Suzanne with hereternal old men. As if they knew better than I do how a woman holdsherself up or sits herself down, or nurses a duck, or defends herself!"

"Your idea is probably correct. I understand you to propose that Ishould paint a picture called The Blind Artist?"

"Don't do the imbecile. I propose for subject Me--not posed; me as I amin the Rest. Is it not that it is then that I am the most pretty, themost chic?"

"It certainly is, " said he. "And you propose that I should paint you asyou appear in the Rest?"

"Perfectly, " she interrupted. "Tender rose colour--it goes to a marvelwith my Cléo de Mérode hair. And if you want a contrast--or one of thoselittle tricks to make people say: 'What does it mean?'"

"I don't, thank you, " he laughed. 

"Paint that white drowned girl's face that hangs behind your stove. Paint her and me looking at each other. She has the air of felicitatingherself that she is dead. Me, I will have the air of felicitating myselfthat I am alive. You will see, Monsieur. Essay but one sole littlesketch, and you will think of nothing else. One might entitle it 'TheRivals. '"

"Or 'The Rest, '" said Vernon, a little interested. "Oh, well, I'm notdoing anything. --I'll make a sketch and give it you as a present. Comein an hour. "

 * * * * *

"Auntie, wake up, wake up!" Betty, white-faced and determined, waspulling back the curtain with fingers that rigidly would not tremble. 

"Shut the door and spare my blushes, " said her aunt. "What's up now?"She looked at the watch on the bed-table. "Why its only just six. "

"I can't help it, " said Betty; "you've had all the night to sleep in. Ihaven't. I want you to get up and dress and come to Paris with me by theearly train. "

"Sit down, " said the aunt. "No, not on the bed. I hate that. In thischair. Now remember that we all parted last night in the best ofspirits, and that as far as I know nothing has happened since. "

"Oh, no--nothing of course!" said Betty. 

"Don't be ironical, " said Miss Desmond; "at six in the morning it'spositively immoral. Tell me all--let me hear the sad sweet story of yourlife. "

"Very well, " said Betty, "if you're only going to gibe I'll go alone. OrI'll get Mr. Temple to take me. "

"To see the other man? That _will_ be nice. "

"Who said anything about--?"

"You did, the moment you came in. Come child; sit down and tell me. I'mnot unsympathetic. I'm only very, very sleepy. And I _did_ thinkeverything was arranged. I was dreaming of orange blossoms and The VoiceThat Breathed. And the most beautiful trousseau marked E. T. And silverfish-knives, and salt-cellars in a case lined with purple velvet. "

"Go on, " said Betty, "if it amuses you. "

"No, no. I'm sorry. Forgive the ravings of delirium. Go on. Poor littleBetty! Don't worry. Tell its own aunt. "

"It's not a joke, " said Betty. 

"So I more and more perceive, now that I'm really waking up, " said theaunt, sitting up and throwing back her thick blond hair. "Come, I'll getup now. Give me my stockings--and tell me--"

"They were under my big hat, " said Betty, doing as she was told; "theone I wore the night you came. And I'd thrown it down on the chest ofdrawers--and they were underneath. "

"My stockings?"

"No--my letters. Two of them. And one of them's from Him. It's a weekold. And he says he won't live if I don't love him. "

"They always do, " said Miss Desmond, pouring water into the basin. "Well?"

"And he wants me to marry him, and he was never engaged to Lady St. Craye; and it was a lie. I've had a letter from _her_. "

"I can't understand a word you say, " said Miss Desmond throughsplashings. 

"My friend Paula, that I told you about. She never went home to herfather. Mr. Vernon set her up in a restaurant! Oh, how good and noble heis! Here are your shoes--and he says he won't live without me; and I'mgoing straight off to him, and I wouldn't go without telling you. It'sno use telling father yet, but I did think _you'd_ understand. "

"Hand me that green silk petticoat. Thank you. _What_ did you think I'dunderstand?"

"Why that I--that it's him I love. "

"You do, do you?"

"Yes, always, always! And I must go to him. But I won't go and leaveBobbie to think I'm going to marry him some day. I must tell him first, and then I'm going straight to Paris to find him, and give him theanswer to his letter. "

"You must do as you like. It's your life, not mine. But it's a pity, "said her aunt, "and I should send a telegram to prepare him. "

"The office won't be open. There's a train at seven forty-five. Oh, dohurry. I've ordered the pony. We'll call and tell Mr. Temple. "

It was not the 7:45 that was caught, however, but the 10:15, becauseTemple was, naturally, in bed. When he had been roused, and had dressedand come out to them, in the gay terrace overhanging the river where thelittle tables are and the flowers in pots and the vine-covered trellis, Miss Desmond turned and positively fled before the gay radiance of hisface. 

"This is dear and sweet of you, " he said to Betty. 

"What lovely scheme have you come to break to me? But what's the matter?You're not ill?"

"Oh, don't, " said Betty; "don't look like that! I couldn't go withouttelling you. It's all over, Bobbie. "

She had never before called him by that name, and now she did not knowwhat she had called him. 

"What's all over?" he asked mechanically. 

"Everything, " she said; "your thinking I was going to, perhaps, sometime--and all that. Because now I never shall. O, Bobbie, I do hatehurting you, and I do like you so frightfully much! But he's written tome: the letter's been delayed. And it's all a mistake. And I'm going tohim now. Oh, --I hope you'll be able to forgive me!"

"It's not your fault, " he said. "Wait a minute. It's so sudden. Yes, Isee. Don't you worry about me, dearest, I shall be all right. May I knowwho it is?"

"It's Mr. Vernon, " said Betty. 

"Oh, my God!" Temple's hand clenched. "No, no, no, no!"

"I am so very, very sorry, " said Betty in the tone one uses who hastrodden on another's foot in an omnibus. 

He had sat down at one of the little tables, and was looking out overthe shining river with eyes half shut. 

"But it's not true, " he said. "It can't be true! He's going to marryLady St. Craye. "

"That's all a mistake, " said Betty eagerly; "he only said thatbecause--I haven't time to tell you all about it now. But it was all amistake. "

"Betty, dear, " he said, using in his turn, for the first time, herChristian name, "don't do it. Don't marry him. You don't know. "

"I thought you were his friend. "

"So I am, " said Temple. "I like him right enough. But what's all thefriendship in the world compared with your happiness? Don't marryhim--dear. Don't. "

"I shall marry whom I choose, " said Betty, chin in air, "and it won't beyou. " ("I don't care if I am vulgar and brutal, " she told herself, "itserves him right")

"It's not for me, dear. It's not for me--it's for you. I'll go rightaway and never see you again. Marry some straight chap--anyone--But notVernon. "

"I am going to marry Mr. Vernon, " said Betty with lofty calm, "and I amvery sorry for any annoyance I may have caused you. Of course, I see nowthat I could never--I mean, " she added angrily, "I hate people who arefalse to their friends. Yes--and now I've missed my train. "

She had. 

"Forgive me, " said Temple when the fact was substantiated, and the graypony put up, "after all, I was your friend before I--before you--beforeall this that can't come to anything. Let me give you both some coffeeand see you to the station. And Betty, don't you go and be sorry aboutme afterwards. Because, really, it's not your fault and, " he laughed andwas silent a moment, "and I'd rather have loved you and have it end likethis, dear, than never have known you. I truly would. "

The journey to Paris was interminable. Betty had decided not to think ofTemple, yet that happy morning face of his would come between her andthe things she wanted to think of. To have hurt him like that!--It hurther horribly; much more than she would have believed possible. And shehad been cruel. "Of course it's natural that he should say things aboutHim. He must hate anyone that--He nearly cried when he said that aboutrather have loved me than not--Yes--" A lump came in Betty's own throat, and her eyes pricked. 

"Come, don't cry, " said her aunt briskly; "you've made your choice, andyou're going to your lover. Don't be like Lot's wife. You can't eat yourcake and have it too. "

Vernon's concierge assured these ladies that Monsieur was at home. 

"He makes the painting in this moment, " she said. "Mount then, myladies. "

They mounted. 

Betty remembered her last--her first--visit to his studio: when Paulahad disappeared and she had gone to him for help. She remembered how thevelvet had come off her dress, and how awful her hair had been when shehad looked in the glass afterwards. And Lady St. Craye--how beautifullydressed, how smiling and superior!

"Hateful cat!" said Betty on the stairs. 

"Eh?" said her aunt. 

Now there would be no one in the studio but Vernon. He would be readingover her letters--nothing in them--only little notes about whether shewould or wouldn't be free on Tuesday--whether she could or couldn't dinewith him on Wednesday. But he would be reading them over--perhaps--

The key was in the door. 

"Do you mind waiting on the stairs, Auntie dear, " said Betty in a voiceof honey; "just the first minute?--I would like to have it for ustwo--alone. You don't mind?"

"Do as you like, " said the aunt rather sadly. "I should knock if I wereyou. "

Betty did not knock. She opened the studio door softly. She would liketo see him before he saw her. 

She had her wish. 

A big canvas stood on the easel, a stool in front of it. The table wasin the middle of the room, a yellow embroidered cloth on it. There wasfood on the cloth--little breads, pretty cakes and strawberries andcherries, and wine in tall, beautiful, topaz-coloured glasses. 

Vernon sat in his big chair. Betty could see his profile. He sat there, laughing. On the further arm of the chair sat, laughing also, a verypretty young woman. Her black hair was piled high on her head andfastened with a jewelled pin. The sunlight played in the jewels. Shewore a pink silk garment. She held cherries in her hand. 

"_V'la cheri_!" she said, and put one of the twin cherries in her mouth;then she leant over him laughing, and Vernon reached his head forward totake in his mouth the second cherry that dangled below her chin. Hismouth was on the cherry, and his eyes in the black eyes of the girl inpink. 

Betty banged the door. 

"Come away!" she said to Miss Desmond. And she, who had seen, too, thepink picture, came away, holding Betty's arm tight. 

"I wonder, " she said as they reached the bottom of the staircase, "Iwonder he didn't come after us to--to--try to explain. "

"I locked the door, " said Betty. "Don't speak to me, please. "

They were in the train before either broke silence. Betty's face waswhite and she looked old--thirty almost her aunt thought. 

[Illustration: "On the further arm of the chair sat, laughing also, avery pretty young woman"]

It was Miss Desmond who spoke. 

"Betty, " she said, "I know how you feel. But you're very young. I thinkI ought to say that that girl--"

"_Don't_!" said Betty. 

"I mean what we saw doesn't necessarily mean that he doesn't love you. "

"Perhaps not, " said Betty, fierce as a white flame. "Anyhow, it meansthat I don't love him. "

Miss Desmond's tact, worn by three days of anxiety and agitation, brokesuddenly, and she said what she regretted for some months:

"Oh, you don't love _him_ now? Well, the other man will console you. "

"I hate you, " said Betty, "and I hate him; and I hope I shall never seea man again as long as I live!"

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

"AND SO--"

The banging of his door, the locking of it, annoyed Vernon, yetinterested him but little. One's acquaintances have such queer notionsof humour. He had the excuse--and by good luck the rope--to explore hiscelebrated roofs. Mimi was more agitated than he, so he dismissed herfor the day with many compliments and a bunch of roses, and spent whatwas left of the light in painting in a background to the sketch ofBetty--the warren as his sketch-book helped him to remember it. Perhapshe and she would go there together some day. 

He looked with extreme content at the picture on the easel. 

He had worked quickly and well. The thing was coming splendidly. Mimihad been right. She could pose herself as no artist had ever posed her. He would make a picture of the thing after all. 

The next morning brought him a letter. That he, who had hated letters, should have come to care for a letter more than for anything that couldhave come to him except a girl. He kissed the letter before he openedit. 

"At last, " he said. "Oh, this minute was worth waiting for!"

He opened the envelope with a smile mingled of triumph and somethingbetter than triumph--and read:

 "Dear Mr. Vernon:

 "I hope that nothing in my manner has led you to expect any other answer than the one I must give. That answer is, of course, _no_. Although thanking you sincerely for your flattering offer, I am obliged to say that I have never thought of you except as a friend. I was extremely surprised by your letter. I hope I have not been in any way to blame. With every wish for your happiness, and regrets that this should have happened, I am yours faithfully, "Elizabeth Desmond. "

He read the letter, re-read it, raised his eyebrows. Then he took twoturns across the studio, shrugged his shoulders impatiently, lit a matchand watched the letter burn. As the last yellow moving sparks died inthe black of its ash, he bit his lip. 

"Damn, " he said, "oh, damn!"

Next day he went to Spain. A bunch of roses bigger and redder than anyroses he had ever sent her came to Lady St. Craye with his card--p. D. A. In the corner. 

She, too, shrugged her shoulders, bit her lip and--arranged the roses inwater. Presently she tried to take up her life at the point where shehad laid it down when, last October, Vernon had taken it into his hands. Succeeding as one does succeed in such enterprises. 

It was May again when Vernon found himself once more sitting at one ofthe little tables in front of the Café de la Paix. 

"Sit here long enough, " he said, "and you see every one you have everknown or ever wanted to know. Last year it was the jasmine lady--andthat girl--on the same one and wonderful day. This year it's--by Jove!"

He rose and moved among the closely set chairs and tables to thepavement. The sightless stare of light-blanched spectacles met his eyes. A gentlemanly-looking lady in short skirts stood awaiting him. 

"How are you?" she said. "Yes, I know you didn't see me, but I thoughtyou'd like to. "

"I do like to, indeed. May I walk with you--or--" he glanced back at thetable where his Vermouth stood untasted. 

"The impertinence of it! Frightfully improper to sit outside cafés, isn't it?--for women, I mean--and this Café in particular. Yes, I'lljoin you with the greatest pleasure. Coffee please. "

"It's ages since I saw you, " he said amiably, "not since--"

"Since I called on you at your hotel. How frightened you were!"

"Not for long, " he answered, looking at her with the eyes she loved, theeyes of someone who was not Vernon--"Ah, me, a lot of water has run--"

"Not under the bridges, " she pleaded: "say off the umbrellas. "

"Since, " he pursued, "we had that good talk. You remember, I wanted tocall on you in London and you wouldn't let me. You might let me now. "

"I will, " she said. "97 Curzon Street. Your eyes haven't changed coloura bit. Nor your nature, I suppose. Yet something about you's changed. Got over Betty yet?"

"Quite, thanks, " he said tranquilly. "But last time we met, you rememberwe agreed that I had no intentions. "

[Illustration: "The next morning; brought him a letter"]

"Wrong lead, " she said, smiling frankly at him; "and besides I hold allthe trumps. Ace, King, Queen; and Ace, Knave and Queen of another suit. "

"Expound, I implore. "

"Aces equal general definite and decisive information. King and Queen ofhearts equal Betty and the other man. "

"There was another man then?"

"There always is, isn't there? Knave--your honoured self. Queen--whereis the Queen, by the way, --the beautiful Queen with the sad eyes, blind, poor dear, quite blind to everything but the abominable Knave?"

"Meaning me?"

"It's not an unbecoming cap, " she said, stirring her coffee, "and youwear it with an air. Where's the Queen of your suit?"

"I confess I'm at fault. "

"The odd trick is mine. And the honours. You may as well throw down yourhand. Yes. I play whist. Not bridge. Where is your Queen--Lady St. --whatis it?"

"I haven't seen her, " he said steadily, "since last June. I left Parison a sudden impulse, and I hadn't time to say good-bye to her. "

"Didn't you even leave a card? That's not like your eyes. "

"I think I sent a tub of hydrangeas or something, _pour dire adieu_. "

"That was definite. Remember the date?"

"No, " he said, remembering perfectly. 

"Not the eleventh, was it? That was the day when you would get Betty'sletter of rejection. "

"It may have been the eleventh. --In fact it _was_. "

"Ah, that's better! And the tenth--who let you out of your studio on thetenth? I've often wondered. "

"I've often wondered who locked me in. It couldn't have been you, ofcourse?"

"As you say. But I was there. "

"It wasn't--?"

"But it was. I thought you'd guess that. She got your letter and came upready to fall into your arms--opened the door softly like any heroineof fiction--I told her to knock--but no: beheld the pink silk pictureand fled the happy shore forever. "

"Damn!" he said. "I do beg your pardon, but really--"

"Don't waste those really convincing damns on ancient history. I toldher it didn't mean that you didn't love her. "

"That was clear-sighted of you. "

"It was also quite futile. She said it means _she_ didn't love _you_ atany rate. I suppose she wrote and told you so. "

A long pause. Then:

"As you say, " said Vernon, "it's ancient history. But you said somethingabout another man. "

"Oh, yes--your friend Temple. --Say 'damn' again if it's the slightestcomfort to you--I've heard worse words. "

"When?" asked Vernon, and he sipped his Vermouth; "not straight away?"

"Bless me, no! Months and months. That picture in your studio gave herthe distaste for all men for quite a long time. We took her home, herfather and me: by the way, he and she are tremendous chums now. "

"Well?"

"You don't want me to tell you the sweet secret tale of their betrothal?He just came down--at Christmas it was. She was decorating the church. Her father had a transient gleam of common sense and sent him down toher. 'Is it you?' 'Is it you?'--All was over! They returned to thatRectory an engaged couple. They were made for each other. --Same tastes, same sentiments. They love the same things--gardens scenery, the simplelife, lofty ideals, cathedrals and Walt Whitman. "

"And when are they to be married?"

"They are married. 'What are we waiting for, you and I?' No, I don'tknow which of them said it. They were married at Easter: Sunday-schoolchildren throwing cowslips--quite idyllic. All the old ladies from theMother's Mutual Twaddle Club came and shed fat tears. They presented atea-set; maroon with blue roses--most 'igh class and select. "

"Easter?" said Vernon, refusing interest to the maroon and bluetea-cups. "She must indeed have been extravagantly fond of me. "

"Not she! She wanted to be in love. We all do, you know. And you werethe first. But she'd never have suited you. I've never known but twowomen who would. "

"Two?" he said. "Which?"

"Myself for one, saving your presence. " She laughed and finished hercoffee. "If I'd happened to meet you when I was young--and notbad-looking. It's only my age that keeps you from falling in love withme. The other one's the Queen of your suit, poor lady, that you sent thehaystack of sunflowers to. Well--Good-bye. Come and see me when you'rein town--97 Curzon Street; don't forget. "

"I shan't forget, " he said; "and if I thought you would condescend tolook at me, it isn't what you call your age that would keep me fromfalling in love with you. "

"Heaven defend me!" she cried. "_Au revoir_. "

 * * * * *

When Vernon had finished his Vermouth, he strolled along to the streetwhere last year Lady St. Craye had had a flat. 

Yes--Madame retained still the apartment. It was to-day that Madamereceived. But the last of the friends of Madame had departed. Monsieurwould find Madame alone. 

Monsieur found Madame alone, and reading. She laid the book facedownwards on the table and held out the hand he had alwaysloved--slender, and loosely made, that one felt one could so easilycrush in one's own. 

"How time flies, " she said. "It seems only yesterday that you were here. How sweet you were to me when I had influenza. How are you? You lookvery tired. "

"I am tired, " he said. "I have been in Spain. And in Italy. And inAlgiers. "

"Very fatiguing countries, I understand. And what is your best news?"

He stood on the hearth-rug, looking down at her. 

"Betty Desmond's married, " he said. 

"Yes, " she answered, "to that nice boy Temple, too. I saw it in thepaper. Dreadful isn't it? Here to-day and gone to-morrow!"

"I'll tell you why she married him, " said Vernon, letting himself downinto a chair, "if you'd like me to. At least I'll tell you why shedidn't marry me. But perhaps the subject has ceased to interest you?"

"Not at all, " she answered with extreme politeness. 

So he told her. 

"Yes, I suppose it would be like that. It must have annoyed you verymuch. It's left marks on your face, Eustace. You look tired to death. "

"That sort of thing does leave marks. "

"That girl taught you something, Eustace; something that's stuck. "

"It is not impossible, I suppose, " he said and then very carelessly, asone leading the talk to lighter things, he added: "I suppose youwouldn't care to marry me?"

"Candidly, " she answered, calling all her powers of deception to heraid, "candidly, I don't think I should. "

"I knew it, " said Vernon, smiling; "my heart told me so. "

"She, " said Lady St. Craye, "was frightened away from her life'shappiness, as they call it, by seeing you rather near to a pink silkmodel. I suppose you think _I_ shouldn't mind such things?"

"You forget, " said Vernon demurely. "Such things never happen after oneis married. "

"No, " she said, "of course they don't. I forgot that. "

"You might as well marry me, " he said, and the look of youth had comeback suddenly, as it's way was, to his face. 

"I might very much better not. "

They looked at each other steadily. She saw in his eyes a little of whatit was that Betty had taught him. 

She never knew what he saw in hers, for all in a moment he was kneelingbeside her; his arm was across the back of her chair, his head was onher shoulder and his face was laid against her neck, as the face of achild, tired with a long play-day, is laid against the neck of itsmother. 

"Ah, be nice to me!" he said. "I am very tired. "

Her arm went round his shoulders as the mother's arm goes round theshoulders of the child. 

THE END.