set you right," he said.

Wonderingly, Elsa obeyed. Millar called a servant who was passing, and
said:

"You will find a small red leather case in my overcoat pocket. Bring it
here."

The servant went out and he continued to Elsa:

"I know the reason of this marriage, but you--you don't know the reason,
or----"

"Or what?"

"Or you don't want to know. Hence you are about to consent."

"Consent to what?" Elsa cried. "Don't beat around the bush. This is what
I am trying to avoid. I am about to consent to become the wife of a man
who loves another woman. And, what is more, I intend to go on my
honeymoon with a man who has another woman in his heart--who leaves with
this other woman everything he should bring to his wife--love, sympathy,
enthusiasm, everything. You see, you did not know me."

Millar was unmoved by her vehement declaration. As the servant
re-entered the room and handed him a small, red leather case, he said:

"I did not think this subject could excite you to such a degree."

"I don't want any one laughing at me," Elsa protested. "I want them all
to understand that I know quite well the way I am going, and that I go
that way proudly, fully conscious of it--that I know everything and yet
I consent to be his wife."

"Why?" Millar asked, opening his little satchel.

"Because--because--I--I love him," the girl answered, and began to sob.

Millar smiled wickedly as he took from the case a dainty lace
handkerchief and held it toward Elsa.

"Pardon me, I always carry this with me," he said. "It is my weeping
bag. In it is everything a woman needs for weeping."

Elsa sobbed and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, not noticing
that the man was amused.

"I--I love him," she declared.

"And take this also," Millar said, handing her a little mirror, then a
powder puff and a tiny stick of rouge. Elsa could not help smiling
through her tears at the absurdity of it, as she dabbed and dusted her
tear-stained face, looking at herself in the little mirror, until all
traces of her weeping were removed.

"So this is the far-famed Saucy Elsa," Millar said as he watched her.

"No, it isn't," she said rebelliously. "When I came here to-night I was
a young, saucy girl. Now I am a nervous old woman. What shall I do?"

"Whatever you do, you must not be discouraged. You must fight--attack
the enemy. But first of all you must be pretty."

"I shall try," Elsa said dolefully.

"You must show that woman yo