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."
"I am tired," he said. "I have been in Spain. And in Italy. And in Algiers."
"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 the paper. Dreadful isn't it? Here to-day and gone to-morrow!"