"But it was. I thought you'd guess that. She got your letter and came up ready to fall into your arms—opened the door softly like any heroine of fiction—I told her to knock—but no: beheld the pink silk picture and 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 told her 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 at any 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 something about another man."
"Oh, yes—your friend Temple.—Say 'damn' again if it's the slightest comfort 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 her the distaste for all men for quite a long time. We took her home, her father and me: by the way, he and she are tremendous chums now."