Part 25 (2/2)

She talked when she wished to talk, and remained silent when she preferred. If, instead of coming to Nice and etois, she had expressed a desire to turn in some other direction, she knew he would merely have nodded.

It was all one to him. East, west, north, or south--what was the odds?

Married or single--what was the odds?

So she also should have felt. With this big man by her side to guard her and do her will, she should have been able to abandon herself utterly to the delights of each pa.s.sing hour--to the magic of the fairy kingdom he had made for her. It was all she had asked for, and that much it was her right to accept, if he chose to give it. She was cheating no one. Monte himself would have been the first to admit that. Therefore she should have been quite at peace with herself.

The fact remained, however, that each day since they had left Paris she had found herself more and more at the mercy of strange moods; sometimes an unusual and inexplicable exhilaration, such as that moment last night when Monte had turned and seized her arm; sometimes an unnatural depression, like that which now oppressed her. These had been only intervals, to be sure. The hours between had been all she had looked forward to--warm, basking hours of lazy content.

To-night she had been longer than ever before in recovering her balance. She had expected to undress, go to bed, and so to sleep.

Perhaps it was the sight of Monte pacing up and down there alone that prolonged her mood. Yet, not to see him, all that was necessary was to close her eyes or to turn the other way. It should have been easy to do this. Only it was not. She followed him back and forth. In some ways, a bride could not have acted more absurdly.

At the thought she withdrew from the window in startled confusion.

Standing in the middle of the room, she stared about as if challenged as to her right there by some unseen visitor. This would never do.

She was too much alone. She must go to Monte. He would set her right, because he understood. She would take his arm, his strong, steady arm, and walk a little way with him and laugh with him. That was what she needed.

She hurried into her clothes, struggling nervously with hooks and b.u.t.tons as if there were need of haste. Then, throwing a light shawl over her shoulders, she went out past Henri, on her way to Monte.

Monte had been all wrong in his guesses. She had actually been running toward him instead of away from him when, just outside the hotel, she almost collided with Peter Noyes and his sister.

Peter Noyes did not see her at first. His eyes were covered with a green shade, even out here in the night. But his sister Beatrice gave an exclamation that brought him to attention and made him fumble at the shade as if to tear it off. Yet she had spoken but one word:--

”Marjory!”

She whose name had been called shrank back as if hoping the dark would hide her.

”Marjory!” cried Peter Noyes.

Beatrice rushed forward, seizing both the girl's hands.

”It is you,” she exclaimed, as if Marjory sought to deny the fact.

”Peter--Peter, it's Marjory Stockton!”

Peter stepped forward, his hand outstretched hesitatingly, as one who cannot see. Marjory took the hand, staring with questioning eyes at Beatrice.

”He worked too hard,” explained the latter. ”This is the price he paid.”

”Oh, I'm sorry, Peter!” she cried.

He tried to smile.

”It's at moments like this I mind it,” he answered. ”I--I thought you were in Paris, Marjory.”

”I came here to-day.”

She spoke nervously.

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