Vernon laughed.
"You have all the imagination of the greatest nation in the world, Miss Voscoe," he said. "Thank you. These straight talks to young men are the salt of life. Good-bye."
"You haven't all the obfuscation of the stupidest nation in the world," she retorted. "If you had had you'd have had a chance to find out what straight talking means--which it's my belief you never have yet. Good-bye. You take my tip. Either you go back to where you were before you sighted Betty, or if the other one's sick of you too, just shuffle the cards, take a fresh deal and start fair. You go home and spend a quiet evening and think it all over."
Vernon went off laughing, and wondering why he didn't hate Miss Voscoe. He did not laugh long. He sat in his studio, musing till it was too late to go out to dine. Then he found some biscuits and sherry--remnants of preparations for the call of a picture dealer--ate and drank, and spent the evening in the way recommended by Miss Voscoe. He lay face downward on the divan, in the dark, and he did "think it all over."
But first there was the long time when he lay quite still--did not think at all, only remembered her hands and her eyes and her hair, and the pretty way her brows lifted when she was surprised or perplexed--and the four sudden sweet dimples that came near the corners of her mouth when she was amused, and the way her mouth drooped when she was tired.
"I want you. I want you. I want you," said the man who had been the Amorist. "I want you, dear!"
When he did begin to think, he moved uneasily in the dark as thought after thought crept out and stung him and slunk away. The verses he had written at Long Barton--ironic verses, written with the tongue in the cheek--came back with the force of iron truth: "I love you to my heart's hid core: Those other loves? How can one learn From marshlights how the great fires burn? Ah, no--I never loved before!"
He had smiled at Temple's confidences--when Betty was at hand--to be watched and guarded. Now Betty was away--anywhere. And Temple was deciding whether it was she whom he loved. Suppose he did decide that it was she, and, as Miss Voscoe had said, made her see it? "Damn," said Vernon, "Oh, damn!"
He was beginning to be a connoisseur in the fine flavours of the different brands of jealousy. Anyway there was food for thought.