d been
for two weeks--for the privilege of just being alone with her, he would
have foregone that now, had it been possible to write her what he had
to say. In a letter it is easy to leave unsaid so many things. But he
must face her leaving the same things unsaid, because she was a woman
who demanded that a man speak what he had to say man-fashion. He must
do that, even though there would be little truth in his words. He must
make her believe the lie. He cringed at the word. But, after all, it
was the truth to her. That was what he must keep always in mind. He
had only to help her keep her own conception. He was coming to her,
not in his proper person, but as just Monte. As such he would be
telling the truth.

He shaved and dressed with some care. The rain beat against the
window, and he did not hear it. He went down to breakfast and faced
the vacant chair which he had ordered to be left at his table. She had
never sat there, though at every meal it stood ready for her. Peter
suggested once that he join them at their table until madame returned;
but Monte had shaken his head.

Monte did not telephone her until ten, and then he asked simply if he
might come over for an hour.

"Certainly," she answered: "I shall be glad to see you. It's a
miserable day, Monte."

"It's raining a bit, but I don't mind."

"That's because you're so good-natured."

He frowned. It was a privilege he had over the telephone.

"Anyhow, what you can't help you may as well grin and bear."

"I suppose so, Monte," she answered. "But if I 'm to grin, I must
depend upon you to make me."

"I'll be over in five minutes," he replied.

She needed him to make her grin! That was all he was good for. Thank
Heaven, he had it in his power to do this much; as soon as he told her
she was to be free again, the smile would return to her lips.

He went at once to the hotel, and she came down to meet him, looking
very serious--and very beautiful. Her deep eyes seemed deeper than
ever, perhaps because of a trace of dark below them. She had color,
but it was bright crimson against a dead white. Her lips were more
mobile than usual, as if she were having difficulty in controlling
them--as if many unspoken things were struggling there for expression.

When he took her warm hand, she raised her head a little, half closing
her eyes. It was clear that she was worrying more than even he had
suspected. Poor little woman, her conscience wa