Part 52 (1/2)

The ways of love--he had called it love; it was a name like another--had merely been a sort of dram-drinking. Such love was the intoxicant necessary to transfigure life to the point where all things, even work, look beautiful. Now he tasted the real draught. It flooded his veins like fire and stung like poison. And it made work, and all things else, look mean and poor and unimportant.

”I want you--I want you--I want you,” said Vernon to the vision with the pretty kitten face, and the large gray eyes. ”I want you more than everything in the world,” he said, ”everything in the world put together. Oh, come back to me--dear, dear, dear.”

He was haunted without cease by the little poem he had written when he was training himself to be in love with Betty:

”I love you to my heart's hid core: Those other loves? How should one learn From marshlights how the great fires burn?

Ah, no--I never loved before!”

”Prophetic, I suppose,” he said, ”though G.o.d knows I never meant it.

Any fool of a prophet must hit the bull's eye at least once in a life.

But there was a curious unanimity of prophecy about this. The aunt warned me; that Conway woman warned me; the Jasmine Lady warned me.

And now it's happened,” he told himself. ”And I who thought I knew all about everything!”

Miss Conway's name, moving through his thoughts, left the trail of a new hope.

Next day he breakfasted at Montmartre.

The neatest little Cremerie; white paint, green walls stenciled with fat white geraniums. On each small table a vase of green Bruges ware or Breton pottery holding not a crushed crowded bouquet, but one single flower--a pink tulip, a pink carnation, a pink rose. On the desk from behind which the Proprietress ruled her staff, enormous pink peonies in a tall pot of Grez de Flandre.

Behind the desk Paula Conway, incredibly neat and business-like, her black hair severely braided, her plain black gown fitting a figure grown lean as any grey-hound's, her lace collar a marvel of fine laundry work.

Dapper-waisted waitresses in black, with white ap.r.o.ns, served the customers. Vernon was served by Madame herself. The clientele formed its own opinion of the cause of this, her only such condescension.

”Well, and how's trade?” he asked over his asparagus.

”Trade's beautiful,” Paula answered, with the frank smile that Betty had seen, only once or twice, and had loved very much: ”if trade will only go on behaving like this for another six weeks my cruel creditor will be paid every penny of the money that launched me.”

Her eyes dwelt on him with candid affection.

”Your cruel creditor's not in any hurry,” he said. ”By the way, I suppose you've not heard anything of Miss Desmond?”

”How could I? You know you made me write that she wasn't to write.”

”I didn't _make_ you write anything.”

”You approved. But anyway she hasn't my address. Why?”

”She's gone away: and she also has left no address.”

”You don't think?--Oh, no--nothing _could_ have happened to her!”

”No, no,” he hastened to say. ”I expect her father sent for her, or fetched her.”

”The best thing too,” said Paula. ”I always wondered he let her come.”