"Madame should put on a white gown and wear
a ribbon in her hair."

"A ribbon!" exclaimed madame. "That would look absurd."

"You shall see."

She was too weak to protest. She was glad enough to sit down and give
herself up utterly to Marie.

"Only we must not keep him waiting too long," she said. "Monsieur
Covington does not like to be kept waiting."

"It is he?" exclaimed Marie.

"It--it is quite a surprise." She blushed. "I--I do not understand
why he is here."

"It should not be difficult to understand," ventured Marie.

To that madame made no reply. It was clear enough what Marie meant.
It was a natural enough mistake. To her, Monsieur Covington was still
the husband of madame. She had stood in the little chapel in Paris
when madame was married. When one was married, one was married; and
that was all there was to it for all time. So, doubtless, Marie
reasoned. It was the simple peasant way--the old, honest, woman way.

Madame folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes while Marie did
her hair and adjusted the ribbon. Then Marie slipped a white gown over
her head.

"There," concluded the maid, with satisfaction, as she fastened the
last hook. "Madame looks as young as when she was married."

But the color that made her look young vanished the moment Marjory
started down the stairs alone to meet him. Several times she paused to
catch her breath; several times she was upon the point of turning back.
Then she saw him coming up to meet her. She felt her hand in his.

"Jove!" he was saying, "but it's good to see you again."

"But I don't understand why you are here," she managed to gasp.

To him it was evidently as simple as to Marie.

"To see you," he answered promptly.

"If that is all, then you should not have come," she declared.

They were still on the stairs. She led the way down and into the lower
reception-room. She did not care to go again into the sun parlor. She
thought it would be easier to talk to him in surroundings not
associated with anything in the past. They had the room to themselves.
She sat down and motioned him to another chair at some little distance.
He paid no attention to her implied request. With his feet planted
firmly, his arms folded, he stood before her while she tried to find
some way of avoiding his gaze.

"Peter Noyes has gone," he began.

"Yes," she nodded. "You heard about his eyes?"

"He wrote me."

She looked up swiftly.

"Peter