tinctively shrank away from it. Had the waiter delayed another
second before leading them to a table, she would have gone out.

Monte ordered the wine he was expected to order, but Marjory scarcely
touched it to her lips, while he was content to watch it bubble in his
glass. He did not like to have her here, and yet it was almost worth
the visit to watch her eyes grow big, to watch her sensitive mouth
express the disgust she felt for the mad crowd, to have her
unconsciously hitch her chair nearer his.

"The worst of it is," he explained to her, "it's the outsiders who are
doing all this--Americans, most of them."

Suddenly, from behind them, a clear tenor voice made itself heard
through the din. The first notes were indistinct; but in a few seconds
the singer had the room to himself. Turning quickly, Marjory saw the
slender figure of Hamilton, swaying slightly, standing by a table, his
eyes leveled upon hers. He was singing "The Rosary"--singing it as
only he, when half mad, could sing it.

She clutched Monte's hand as he half rose from his seat.

"Please," she whispered, "it's best to sit still."

Stronger and stronger the plaintive melody fell from his lips, until
finally the orchestra itself joined. Women strained forward, and
half-dazed men sat back and listened with bated breath. Even Monte
forgot for a moment the boldness that inspired Hamilton, and became
conscious only of Marjory's warm fingers within his. So, had the
singer been any one else, he would have been content to sit to the end.
But he knew the danger there. His only alternative, however, was to
rise and press through the enraptured crowd, which certainly would have
resented the interruption. It seemed better to wait, and go out during
the noisy applause that was sure to follow.

At the second verse Hamilton, still singing, came nearer. A path
opened before him, as before an inspired prophet. It was only Monte
who moved his chair slightly and made ready. Still there was nothing
he could do until the man committed some overt act. When Hamilton
concluded his song, he was less than two feet away. By then Monte was
on his feet. As the applause swept from every corner of the room,
Hamilton seized from a near-by table a glass of wine, and, raising it,
shouted a toast:--

"To the bride."

The crowd followed his eyes to the shrinking girl behind Monte. In
good humor they rose, to a man, and joined in, draining their glasses.
It was