d of the taxis in the little villages,"
she said.

Monte leaned back.

"If they only had here in Paris a force of good, honest Irish cops
instead of these confounded gendarmes," he mused.

She looked her astonishment at the irrelevant observation.

"You see," he explained, "it might be possible then to lay for Teddy H.
some evening and--argue with him."

"It's nice of you, Monte, to think of that," she murmured.

Monte was nice in a good many ways.

"The trouble is, they lack sentiment, these gendarmes," he concluded.
"They are altogether too law-abiding."

CHAPTER III

A SUMMONS

Monte himself had sometimes been accused of lacking sentiment; and yet,
the very first thing he did when starting for his walk the next morning
was to order a large bunch of violets to be sent to number sixty-four
Boulevard Saint-Germain. Then, at a somewhat faster pace than usual,
he followed the river to the Jardin des Tuileries, and crossed there to
the Avenue des Champs Elysees into the Bois.

He walked as confidently as if overnight his schedule had again been
put in good running order; for, overnight, spring had come, and that
was what his schedule called for in Paris. The buds, which until now
had hesitated to unfold, trembled forth almost before his eyes under
the influence of a sun that this morning blazed in a turquoise sky.
Perhaps they had hurried a trifle to overtake Monte.

With his shoulders well back, filling his lungs deep with the perfumed
morning air, he swung along with a hearty, self-confident stride that
caused many a little nursemaid to turn and look at him again.

He had sent her violets; and yet, except for the fact that he had never
before sent her flowers, he could not rightly be accused of
sentimentalism. He had acted on the spur of the moment, remembering
only the sad, wistful smile with which she had bade him good-night when
she stood at the door of the _pension_. Or perhaps he had been
prompted by the fact that she was in Paris alone.

Until now it had never been possible to dissociate her completely from
Aunt Kitty. Marjory had never had a separate existence of her own. To
a great many people she had never been known except as Miss Dolliver's
charming niece, although to Monte she had been known more particularly
as a young friend of the Warrens. But, even in this more intimate
capacity, he had always been relieved of any sense of responsibility
because of this aunt. Wherever he me