him to leave Paris?"

"Well, I can tell him he is annoying you and that I won't stand for
it," he declared.

For a second her eyes grew mellow; for a second a more natural red
flushed her cheeks.

"If you were only my big brother, now," she breathed.

Monte saw the point. His own cheeks turned a red to match hers.

"You mean he'll ask--what business you are of mine?"

"Yes."

And Monte would have no answer. He realized that. As a friend he had,
of course, certain rights; but they were distinctly limited. It was,
for instance, no business of his whether she went to Etois or Japan or
India. By no stretch of the imagination could he make it his
business--though it affected his whole schedule, though it affected her
whole life. As a friend he would be justified, perhaps, in throwing
young Hamilton out of the door if he happened to be around when the man
was actually annoying her; but there was no way in which he could guard
her against such annoyances in the future. He had no authority that
extended beyond the moment; nor was it possible for Marjory herself to
give him that authority. Young Hamilton, if he chose, could harry her
around the world, and it would be none of Monte's business.

There was something wrong with a situation of that sort. If he had
only been born her brother or father, or even a first cousin, then it
might be possible to do something, because, if necessary, he could
remain always at hand. He wondered vaguely if there were not some law
that would make him a first cousin. He was on the point of suggesting
it when a bell jangled solemnly in the hall.

The girl clutched his arm.

"I'm afraid he's come again," she gasped.

Monte threw back his shoulders.

"Fine," he smiled. "It could n't be better."

"But I don't want to see him! I won't see him!"

"There is n't the slightest need in the world of it," he nodded. "You
go upstairs, and I'll see him."

But, clinging to his arm, she drew him into the hall and toward the
stairs. The bell rang again--impatiently.

"Come," she insisted.

He tried to calm her.

"Steady! Steady! I promise you I won't make a scene."

"But he will. Oh, you don't know him. I won't have it. Do you hear?
I won't have it."

To Madame Courcy, who appeared, she whispered:--

"Tell him I refuse to see him again. Tell him you will call the
gendarmes."

"It seems so foolish to call in those fellows when the whole thing
might be settled quietl