artre district--the cafes, the music
halls, the sidewalk shows, the throngs of people every man and
woman of them with his or her own individual variation upon
the fascinating, covertly terrible face of the Paris mob.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, when a remark brought
no answer.

"The past," said she. "And the future."

"Well--we'll find out in a few days that your farmer's got no
claim on you--and we'll attend to that marriage contract and
everything'll be all right."

"Do you want to marry me?" she asked, turning on him suddenly.

"We're as good as married already," replied he. "Your tone
sounds as if _you_ didn't want to marry _me_." And he laughed
at the absurdity of such an idea.

"I don't know whether I do or not," said she slowly.

He laid a gentle strong hand on her knee. Gentle though it
was, she felt its strength through the thickness of her cloak.
"When the time comes," said he in the soft voice with the
menace hidden in it, "you'll know whether you do or don't.
You'll know you _do_--Queenie."

The auto was at the curb before the Abbaye. And on the steps,
in furs and a top hat, stood the tall, experienced looking,
cynical looking playwright. Susan's eyes met his, he lifted
his hat, formal, polite.

"I'll bet he's got the best table in the place," said Palmer,
before opening the door, "and I'll bet it cost him a bunch."

CHAPTER XXI

BRENT had an apartment in the rue de Rivoli, near the Hotel
Meurice and high enough to command the whole Tuileries garden.
From his balcony he could see to the east the ancient courts
of the Louvre, to the south the varied, harmonious facades of
the Quay d'Orsay with the domes and spires of the Left Bank
behind, to the west the Obelisque, the long broad reaches of
the Champs Elysees with the Arc de Triomphe at the boundary of
the horizon. On that balcony, with the tides of traffic far
below, one had a sense of being at the heart of the world,
past, present, and to come. Brent liked to feel at home
wherever he was; it enabled him to go tranquilly to work
within a few minutes after his arrival, no matter how far he
had journeyed or how long he had been away. So he regarded it
as an economy, an essential to good work, to keep up the house
in New York, a villa in Petite Afrique, with the Mediterranean
washing its garden wall, this apartment at Paris; and a
telegram a week in advance would reserve him the same quarters
in the quietest part