off with a laugh. That she was not to do so
surprised her and added a still deeper flush to her cheeks.

"So this is the secret of my good coffee?" he asked.

"There is so very little I can do for you," she faltered.

"That is a whole lot more than I deserve," he answered.

However, he was pleased by this trivial attention, and she knew it. It
was an absurdly insignificant incident, and yet here she was recalling
it with something like a thrill. Not only that, but she recalled
another and equally preposterous detail of the day. She had dropped
her vanity-box in the car, and as they both stooped for it his cheek
had brushed hers. He laughed lightly and apologized--forgetting it the
next second. Eight hours later she dared remember it, like any
schoolgirl. Small wonder that she glanced about to make sure the room
was empty. It sent her to bed shamefaced.

The fourth day came, with the golden road still unfolding before them
and her fairy prince still beside her. Then the fifth day, and that
night they stopped within sight of the ocean. It came as a surprise to
both of them. It was as if, after all, they had reached a destination,
when as a matter of fact they had done nothing of the sort. It meant,
to be sure, that the next day would find them in Nice, which would end
their ride, because they intended to remain there for a day or two
until they arranged for a villa in Etois, which, being in the
mountains, they must reach afoot. But if she did not like it she had
only to nod and they could move on to somewhere else. There was
nothing final even about Etois.

That evening they walked by the shore of the sea, and Monte appeared
quieter than usual.

"I have wired ahead for rooms at the Hotel des Roses," he announced.

"Yes, Monte," she said.

"It's where I've stopped for ten years. The last time I was there I
found Edhart gone, and was very uncomfortable."

"You were as dependent upon him as that?" she asked.

"It was what lured me on to Paris--and you," he smiled.

"Then I must be indebted to Edhart also."

"I think it would be no more than decent to look up his grave and place
a wreath of roses there," he observed.

"But, Monte," she protested, "I should hate to imagine he had to give
up his life--for just this."

"At any rate, if he hadn't died I'm sure I should have kept to my
schedule," he said seriously.

"And then?"

"I should not have been here."

"You speak regretfully?" she ask