rn. There
was no reason in the world why she should have expected him to turn.
He had a pleasant day before him. He would amuse himself at the
Casino, enjoy a good luncheon, smoke a cigarette in the sunshine, and
call her up at his leisure when he returned. Except for the light
obligation of ascertaining her wishes concerning dinner, it was the
routine he had followed for ten years. It had kept him satisfied, kept
him content. Doubtless, if he were left undisturbed, it would keep him
satisfied and content for another decade. He would always be able to
walk away from her without turning back.

CHAPTER XVIII

PETER

Beatrice brought Peter at ten, and, in spite of the mute appeal of
Marjory's eyes, stole off on tiptoe and left her alone with him.

"Has Trix gone?" demanded Peter.

"Yes."

"She shouldn't have done that," he complained.

Marjory made him comfortable in the chair Monte had lately occupied,
finding a cushion for his head.

"Please don't do those things," he objected. "You make me feel as if I
were wearing a sign begging for pity."

"How can any one help pitying you, when they see you like this, Peter?"
she asked gently.

"What right have they to do it?" he demanded.

"Right?"

She frowned at that word. So many things in her life seemed to have
been decided without respect for right.

"I'm the only one to say whether I shall be pitied or not," he
declared. "I've lost the use of my eyes temporarily by my own fault.
I don't like it; but I refuse to be pitied."

Marjory was surprised to find him so aggressive. It was not what she
expected after listening to Beatrice. It changed her whole attitude
toward him instantly from one of guarded condolence to honest
admiration. There was no whine here. He was blaming no one--neither
himself nor her. It was with a wave of deep and sincere sympathy,
springing spontaneously from within herself, that she spoke.

"Peter," she said, "I won't pity you any more. But if I 'm sorry for
you--awfully sorry--you won't mind that?"

"I'd rather you would n't think of my eyes at all," he answered
unsteadily. "I can almost forget them myself--with you."

"Then," she said, "we'll forget them. Are you going to stay here long,
Peter?"

"Are you?"

"My plans are uncertain. I don't think I shall ever make any more
plans."

"You must n't let yourself feel that way," Peter returned. "The thing
to do, if one scheme fails, is to start another--r