Part 22 (1/2)

”Madame is well supplied?” he inquired.

”Madame? Who the devil is madame?” demanded Monte.

”Pardon, monsieur,” replied the clerk in some confusion, fearing he had made a grave mistake. ”I did not know monsieur was traveling alone.”

Then it was Monte's turn to show signs of confusion. It was quite true he was not traveling alone. It was the truest thing he knew just then.

”What is necessary for a lady traveling by motor?” he inquired.

The clerk would take great pleasure in showing him in a department devoted to that very end. It was after one bewildering glance about the counters that he became of the opinion that his question should have been: ”What is it that a lady does not wear when traveling by motor?” He saw coats and bonnets and goggles and vanity boxes and gloves, to mention only a few of those things he took in at first glance.

”We are leaving in some haste,” explained Monte, ”so I'm afraid she has none of these things. Would n't the easiest way be for you to give me one of each?”

That indeed would be a pleasure. Did monsieur know the correct size?

Only in a general way--madame was not quite his height and weighed in the neighborhood of one hundred and fifty pounds. That was enough to go upon for outside garments. Still there remained a wide choice of style and color. In this Monte pleased himself, pointing his stick with sure judgment at what took his fancy, as this and the other thing was placed before him. It was a decidedly novel and a very pleasant occupation.

In this way he spent the best part of another hour, and made a payment in American Express orders of a considerable sum. That, however, involved nothing but tearing from the book he always carried as many orders for twenty-five dollars as most nearly approximated the sum total. The articles were to be delivered within one hour to ”Madame M.

Covington, Hotel Normandie.”

Monte left the store with a sense of satisfaction, tempered a trifle by an uncomfortable doubt as to just how this presumption on his part would be received. However, he was well within his rights. He held st.u.r.dily to that.

With still two hours before he could return,--for he must leave her free until luncheon,--he went on to the Champs elysees and so to the Bois. He still dwelt with pleasure upon the opportunity that had been offered him to buy those few things for her. It sent him along briskly with a smile on his face. It did more; it suggested a new idea. The reason he had been taking himself so seriously was that he had been thinking too much about himself and not enough about her. The simple way out of that difficulty was from now on not to consider himself at all. After all, what happened to him did not much matter, as long as it did not affect her. His job from now on was to make her happy.

For the rest of his walk he kept tight hold of that idea, and came back to the hotel with a firm grip on it. He called to her through the door of her room:--

”How you making it?”

”Pretty well,” came her voice. ”Only I went shopping and bought all my things--including a coat for you. Then, when I return, I find a whole boxful from you.”

”All my efforts wasted!” he exclaimed.

”No, Monte,” she replied quickly. ”I could n't allow that, because--well, because it was so thoughtful of you. So I kept the coat and bonnet you selected--and a few other things. I've just sent Marie out to return the rest.”

She had kept the coat and bonnet that he selected! What in thunder was there about that to make a man feel so confoundedly well satisfied?

They left the hotel at three, and rode that day as far as a country inn which took their fancy just before coming into Joigny. It was, to Marjory, a wonderful ride--a ride that made her feel that with each succeeding mile she was leaving farther and farther behind her every care she had ever had in the world. It was a ride straight into the heart of a green country basking sleepily beneath blue skies; of contented people going about their pleasant tasks; of snug, fat farms and snug little houses, with glimpses of an occasional chateau in the background.

When Monte held out his hand to a.s.sist her down, she laughed light-heartedly, refreshed in body and soul. For Monte had been himself ever since they started--better than himself. He had humored her every mood, allowing her to talk when she had felt like talking, or to sit back with her eyes half closed when she wished to give herself up to lazy content. Often, too, he had made her laugh with his absurd remarks--laugh spontaneously, as a child laughs. She had never seen him in such good humor, and could not remember when she herself had been in such good humor.

The rays of the sun were falling aslant as she stepped out, and the western sky was aglow with crimson and purple and pink. It was a drowsy world, with sounds grown distant and the perfume and color of the flowers grown nearer. At the door of the inn, which, looked as if it must have been standing right there in the days of das.h.i.+ng cavaliers, the proprietor and his wife were obsequiously bowing a welcome. It was not often that the big machines deigned to rest here.

Monte stepped toward them.

”Madame desires to rest here for the night, if accommodations may be secured,” he said.

For the night? Mon Dieu! The proprietor had reckoned upon only a temporary sojourn--for a bottle of wine, perhaps. He had never entertained such a host as this. How many rooms would be required?

”Four,” answered Monte.

”Let me see; monsieur and madame could be put in the front room.”