th the toe of his boot and turned to
Joanne, showing her the fresh bread and marmalade. "Mrs. Otto sent these to
you," he said. "And the train won't leave until to-morrow."

In her silence he pulled a chair in front of her, sat down close, and
thrust the point of his hunting knife into one of the two remaining
potatoes.

"And when it does go I'm going with you," he added.

He expected this announcement would have some effect on her. As she jumped
up with the pan of potatoes, leaving the one still speared on the end of
his knife, he caught only the corner of a bewitching smile.

"You still believe that I will be unable to take care of myself up at this
terrible Tete Jaune?" she asked, bending for a moment over the table. "Do
you?"

"No. You can care for yourself anywhere, Ladygray," he repeated. "But I am
quite sure that it will be less troublesome for me to see that no insults
are offered you than for you to resent those insults when they come. Tete
Jaune is full of Quades," he added.

The smile was gone from her face when she turned to him. Her blue eyes were
filled with a tense anxiety.

"I had almost forgotten that man," she whispered. "And you mean that you
would fight for me--again?"

"A thousand times."

The colour grew deeper in her cheeks. "I read something about you once that
I have never forgotten, John Aldous," she said. "It was after you returned
from Thibet. It said that you were largely made up of two emotions--your
contempt for woman and your love of adventure; that it would be impossible
for you not to see a flaw in one, and that for the other--physical
excitement--you would go to the ends of the earth. Perhaps it is this--your
desire for adventure--that makes you want to go with me to Tete Jaune?"

"I am beginning to believe that it will be the greatest adventure of my
life," he replied, and something in his quiet voice held her silent. He
rose to his feet, and stood before her. "It is already the Great
Adventure," he went on. "I feel it. And I am the one to judge. Until to-day
I would have staked my life that no power could have wrung from me the
confession I am going to make to you voluntarily. I have laughed at the
opinion the world has held of me. To me it has all been a colossal joke. I
have enjoyed the hundreds of columns aimed at me by excited women through
the press. They have all asked the same question: Why do you not write of
the good things in women instead of always the bad? I ha