n. The first
embarrassment was the panic of volunteers.

Marie Louise was only one of the hundred million who sprang madly in
all directions and landed nowhere. She wanted to volunteer, too, but
for what? What could she do? Where could she get it to do? In the
chaos of her impatience she did nothing.

Supping alone at the Biltmore one night, she was seen, hailed, and
seized by Polly Widdicombe. Marie Louise's detective knew who Polly
was. He groaned to note that she was the first friend his client had
found.

Polly, giggling adorably, embraced her and kissed her before everybody
in the big Tudor Room. And Polly's husband greeted her with warmth of
hand and voice.

Marie Louise almost wept, almost cried aloud with joy. The prodigal
was home, had been welcomed with a kiss. Evidently her secret had not
crossed the ocean. She could take up life again. Some day the past
would confront and denounce her, perhaps; but for the moment she was
enfranchised anew of human society.

Polly said that she had read of Sir Joseph's death and his wife's, and
what a shock it must have been to poor Marie Louise, but how well she
bore up under it, and how perfectly darn beautiful she was, and what a
shame that it was almost midnight! She and her hub were going to
Washington. Everybody was, of course. Why wasn't Marie Louise there?
And Polly's husband was to be a major--think of it! He was going to be
all dolled up in olive drab and things and-- "Damn the clock, anyway;
if we miss that train we can't get on another for days. And what's
your address? Write it on the edge of that bill of fare and tear it
off, and I'll write you the minute I get settled, for you must come to
us and nowhere else and-- Good-by, darling child, and-- All right,
Tom, I'm coming!"

And she was gone.

Marie Louise went back to her seclusion much happier and yet much
lonelier. She had found a friend who had not heard of her disgrace.
She had lost a friend who still rejoiced to see her.

But her faithful watchman was completely discouraged. When he turned
in his report he threatened to turn in his resignation unless he were
relieved of the futile task of recording Marie Louise's blameless and
eventless life.

And then the agent's night was turned to day--at least his high noon
was turned to higher. For a few days later Marie Louise was abruptly
addressed by Nicky Easton.

She had been working in the big Red Cross shop on Fifth Avenue,
rolling bandages and m