“Why, of course I remember you!” she exclaimed.  “And to think that when I had your card I couldn’t imagine where I had heard the name before!  You are my dear estate agent’s clerk, who wouldn’t take my money, and who was so wretchedly rude to me twelve months ago.”

Tavernake was quite cool.  He found himself wondering whether this was a pose, or whether she had indeed forgotten.  He decided that it was a pose.

“I was also,” he reminded her, “one night in your rooms at the Milan Court when your husband—­”

She stopped him with an imperative gesture.

“Spare me, please,” she begged.  “Those were such terrible days —­so dull, too!  I remember that you were quite one of the brightest spots.  You were absolutely different from every one I had ever met before, and you interested me immensely.”

She looked at him and slowly shook her head.

“You look very nice,” she said.  “Your clothes fit you and you are most becomingly tanned, but you don’t look half so awkward and so adorable.”

“I am sorry,” he replied, shortly.

“And you came to see me!” she went on.  “That was really nice of you.  You were quite fond of me, once, you know.  Tell me, has it lasted?”

“That is exactly what I came to find out,” he answered deliberately.  “So far, I am inclined to think that it has not lasted.”

She made a little wry face and drew his arm through hers.

“Come and sit down and tell me why,” she insisted.  “Be honest, now.  Is it because you think I am looking older?”

“I have thought of you for many hours a day for months,” Tavernake said, slowly, “and I never imagined you so beautiful as you seem now.”

She clapped her hands.

“And yon mean it, too!” she exclaimed.  “There is just the same delightfully convincing note in your tone.  I am sure that you mean it.  Please go on adoring me, Mr. Tavernake.  I have no one who interests me at all just now.  There is an Italian Count who wants to marry me, but he is terribly poor; and a young Australian, who follows me everywhere, but I am not sure about him.  There is an English boy, too, who is going to commit suicide if I don’t say ‘yes’ to him this week.  On the whole, I think I am rather sorry that people know I am a widow.  Tell me, Mr. Tavernake, are you going to adore me, too?”

“I don’t think so,” Tavernake answered.  “I rather believe that I am cured.”

She shrugged her shoulders and laughed musically.

“But you say that you still think I am beautiful,” she went on, “and I am sure my clothes are perfect—­they came straight from Paris.  I hope you appreciate this lace,” she added, drawing it through her fingers.  “My figure is just as good, too, isn’t it?”

She stood up and turned slowly round.  Then she sat down suddenly, taking his hand in hers.

“Please don’t say that you think I have grown less attractive,” she begged.