ses I had had of you at Chic's
house when you were only a school-girl. And I did n't do it on
purpose, Marjory. I 'd have been glad not to do it, because at the
time it hurt to remember them. I thought I'd given you over to Peter.
I thought he was going to take you away from me. So I 'd have been
glad enough to forget, if it had been possible."

She sprang to her feet.

"What are you saying, Monte?" she trembled.

With his head erect and his eyes shining, he was telling her what her
heart hungered to hear. That was what he was doing. Only she must not
listen.

"I'm telling you that to forget was not possible," he repeated hotly;
"I'm telling you that I shall never try again. I've come back to get
you and keep you this time."

He held out his arms to her. She shrank back.

"You're making it so hard," she quavered.

"Come to me," he said gently. "That's the easy way. I love you,
Marjory. Don't you understand? I love you with all my heart and soul,
and I want you to begin life with me now in earnest. Come, little
woman."

He reached her hands and tried to draw her toward him. She resisted
with all her strength.

"You must n't," she gasped. "You must n't!"

"It's you who're making it hard now, wife o' mine," he whispered.

Yes, she was making it hard. But she must make it still harder. He
had come back to her because she was alone, moved temporarily by a
feeling of sentimental responsibility. That was all. He was sincere
enough for the moment, but she must not confuse this with any deeper
passion. He had made a mistake in returning to the Normandie.
Doubtless he had felt lonesome there. It was only natural that he
should exaggerate that, for the time being, into something more.

Then Peter's two letters had come. If Peter had not told him anything
that he should n't, he had probably told him a great deal more than he
should. Monte, big-hearted and good, had, as a consequence of all
these things, imagined himself in love. This delusion might last a
week or two; and then, when he came to himself again, the rude
awakening would follow. He would see her then merely as a trifler.
Worse than that, he might see himself as merely a trifler. That would
be deadly.

"It's you who are making it hard now," he repeated.

She had succeeded in freeing herself, leaving him before her as amazed
and hurt as a spurned child.

"You're forcing me to run away from you--to run away as I did from the
o