The Incomplete Amorist

"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 to her. 'Is it you?' 'Is it you?'--All was over! They returned to that Rectory an engaged couple. They were made for each other.--Same tastes, same sentiments. They love the same things--gardens scenery, the simple life, 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't know which of them said it. They were married at Easter: Sunday-school children throwing cowslips--quite idyllic. All the old ladies from the Mother's Mutual Twaddle Club came and shed fat tears. They presented a tea-set; maroon with blue roses--most 'igh class and select."

"Easter?" said Vernon, refusing interest to the maroon and blue tea-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 were the first. But she'd never have suited you. I've never known but two women who would."

"Two?" he said. "Which?"

"Myself for one, saving your presence." She laughed and finished her coffee. "If I'd happened to meet you when I was young--and not bad-looking. It's only my age that keeps you from falling in love with me. The other one's the Queen of your suit, poor lady, that you sent the haystack of sunflowers to. Well--Good-bye. Come and see me when you're in town--97 Curzon Street; don't forget."

"I shan't forget," he said; "and if I thought you would condescend to look at me, it isn't what you call your age that would keep me from falling in love with you."

"Heaven defend me!" she cried. "Au revoir."

* * * * * When Vernon had finished his Vermouth, he strolled along to the street where last year Lady St. Craye had had a flat.

Yes--Madame retained still the apartment. It was to-day that Madame received. But the last of the friends of Madame had departed. Monsieur would find Madame alone.

Monsieur found Madame alone, and reading. She laid the book face downwards on the table and held out the hand he had always loved--slender, and loosely made, that one felt one could so easily crush 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 look very tired."