“She certainly was very much living and of the world when I saw her last, two years ago,” said Mrs. Van Loo, with an easy smile.  “I dare say that was a ruse of her relatives—­a very stupid one—­to break off the affair, for I think they had other plans.  But, dear me! now I remember, was there not some little quarrel between you before?  Some letter from you that was not very kind?  My impression is that there was something of the sort, and that the young lady was indignant.  But only for a time, you know.  She very soon forgot it.  I dare say if you wrote something very charming to her it might not be too late.  We women are very forgiving, Mr. Demorest, and although she is very much sought after, as are all young American girls whose fathers can give them a comfortable ‘dot’, her parents might be persuaded to throw over a poor prince for a rich countryman in the end.  Of course, you know, to you Republicans there is always something fascinating in titles and blood, and our dear friend is like other girls.  Still, it is worth the risk.  And five years of waiting and devotion really ought to tell.  It’s quite a romance!  Shall I write to her and tell her I have seen you, looking well and prosperous?  Nothing more.  Do let me!  I should be delighted.”

“I think it hardly worth while for you to give yourself that trouble,” said Demorest quietly, looking in Mrs. Van Loo’s smiling eyes, “now that I know the story of the young lady’s death was a forgery.  And I will not intrude further on your time.  Pray give yourself no needless hurry over your packing.  I may go to San Francisco this afternoon, and not even require the rooms to-night.”

“At least, let me make you a present of the souvenir as an acknowledgment of your courtesy,” said Mrs. Van Loo, passing into her bedroom and returning with the photograph.  “I feel that with your five years of constancy it is more yours than mine.”  As a gentleman Demorest knew he could not refuse, and taking the photograph from her with a low bow, with another final salutation he withdrew.

Alone by himself in a corner of the veranda he was surprised that the interview had made so little impression on him, and had so little altered his conviction.  His discovery that the announcement of his betrothed’s death was a fiction did not affect the fact that though living she was yet dead to him, and apparently by her own consent.  The contrast between her life and his during those five years had been covertly accented by Mrs. Van Loo, whether intentionally or not, and he saw again as last night the full extent of his sentimental folly.  He could not even condole with himself that he was the victim of miserable falsehoods that others had invented.  She had accepted them, and had even excused her desertion of him by that last deceit of the letter.

He drew out her photograph and again examined it, but not as a lover.  Had she really grown stouter and more self-complacent?  Was the spirituality and delicacy he had worshiped in her purely his own idiotic fancy?  Had she always been like this?  Yes.  There was the girl who could weakly strive, weakly revenge herself, and weakly forget.  There was the figure that he had expected to find carved upon the tomb which he had long sought that he might weep over.  He laughed aloud.