Marise and Mary Sorel talked late that night in the girl's room. The family breadwinner—always indulged—had not been so petted, so spoiled, since she was threatened withgrippein the first week of her great London triumph. In those days she had shone as a bright planet rather than a fixed star. The proud but anxious mother had feared that some understudy might mine the new favourite's success, as Marise had mined the toppling fame of Elsa Fortescue. The invalid had been surrounded with the warmth of mother-love, caressed, almost hypnotised back to health, and after a worrying day of high temperature had been encouraged to the theatre without giving the understudy even one night's chance. This, although that young woman was dressed and painted for the part!
So it was again on this fateful Sunday in New York, although the most wily Vivien of an understudy could now safely be defied.
Mary went in to Marise the moment Severance had gone. She kissed and cooed over her child. She flattered her. She told her that she was beautiful and brave—toobeautiful! Men loved her too much. Mums warded off an impending attack of hysterics which Marise had been longing to have, and would have enjoyed. She said that her girl's tears burned her heart. She kept Céline away and undressed Marise herself, with purrings and pettings as if the girl had been three instead of twenty-three.
Never was a bed so sweetly smoothed to the downiness of a swan's breast! The pillows were plumped almost with a prayer, that they might yield soft rest to the aching head. Finally, Marise—conscious of all Mums' guile, yet dreamily content with it—was tucked in between the scented sheets, her "nighty" put on by Mums; her long hair brushed and braided by Mums, as no French maid could ever braid or brush.
"Don't think of anything yet," the loving voice soothed. "Just bask, and let your poor old Mums watch over you. Forget you're grown up. Be Mummie's baby girl again."
Marise was not of a temperament to hold out against these charms and woven spells. She cuddled down in bed, and felt an angel child. When Mums herself brought in a tray containing a few exquisite little dishes, she ate, though she had expected—even intended—to starve herself for days. Then when one glass of iced champagne (she didn't touch wine twice a year) and a tiny cup of Turkish coffee had brightened her spirits, "poor old Mums" (looking thirty-five at most, and mild as a trained dove) brought cigarettes for both. After that, they drifted into talk of the future, rather than driving stormily into the teeth of it, like tempest-tossed leaves.
Mary confessed that, if she were in her daughter's place, it would be anguish to give up such a wonderful, gorgeous young man. And then, he was so handsome! No one could compare with him in looks. What eyes! They were pools of ink, on fire! She had never known what tragedy human eyes could express till she had gazed into those of Lord Severance to-day. They had frightened her! If she hadn't sent the man away with a grain of hope she believed that by this time he would be dead, his brains blown out. One didn't take such threats from most people seriously. But Tony was different. It was true, as he said; love was his life—love for this one dear girl. What Mums felt was, thatshecouldn't have resisted him, at her daughter's age. Few women could. Few women would!
By this time, Marise being ready for arguments, her mother engaged in a fencing match, at first with a button on her foil, then with the point gleaming bare. Boldly she talked of what Severance (enriched by his uncle and a dead wife's will) would have to offer. Was he, and all that would be his, to be thrown away for a scruple? A millionaire earl? A unique person?
About two a.m. Marise agreed to Mary's many-times-reiterated wish that she would "think things over"; and promptly fell into a sleep so sound that she looked like a beautiful dead girl.
Miss Marks was sent away next morning by Mrs. Sorel, because "My daughter has had a bad night, and mustn't be disturbed." It was not until eleven o'clock that Marise waked suddenly in her darkened room, as if a voice had called her name. She sat up in bed, dazed. Whose voice was it? Or was it only a voice in a dream? Thinking back, it came to her that she had been dreaming of John Garth—"Samson." With an "Oh!" that revolted against life as it must be lived, she flung herself down again, and remembered everything. For an hour her body lay motionless: but mind and soul moved far. When Mums tapped lightly at the door, and peeped in to inquire, "Do you feel like waking up, pet, and having me bring you a cup of delicious hot coffee? It's twelve o'clock!" she answered quietly, "Yes, I've been awake a long time. I'd love some coffee."
Mary brought it herself—and a covered plate of buttered toast. She asked no question except, "Is your head better, darling?" until pale, composed Marise had bathed, and been dressed with the aid of Céline. Then Mums chirped cheerfully, "Well, what are you going to do to-day? Anything important?"
"It may be important," said Marise. "I don't know yet—till I've talked with him. It depends on what he says. He may say nothing. He may just bash me over the head and stalk away. He'd be capable of that."
"What do you mean?" Mary implored. "Are you speaking of Tony?"
"Oh no! Of a very different man. Of Major Garth."
"Marise! What are you going to do?"
The girl turned from her dressing-table to face her mother. "What you've been goading me on, all last night, to do. What I shall be perfectly mad if Idodo! Now, please, don't say any more—unless you want me to scream. I'm keeping myself calm. I'd better stay calm—till after."
Mary's breast heaved. She breathed back her emotions, as one checks a cough. "You—talk the way you sometimes do after a dress rehearsal!" she tried to laugh. "Before a big first night."
"That's the way I feel," said Marise. "Like before the biggest first night that ever was. Or before the Judgment Day."
She knew that John Garth was staying at the Belmore. She had seen that item in the papers—had seen it in the same day's papers which had informed Garth that Miss Sorel was an actress. The girl began a letter, but tore it up. Then she thought of the telephone. Two minutes later she heard Garth's voice: "Hello! who is this talking?"
"Marise Sorel—calling you from the Plaza. Can you come over?"
"Yes. When?"
"Now."
"I'll be there as soon as a taxi can bring me."
"Good!"
Yet she knew that it was far from good.
"The Spring Song!—The Spring Song!"
The name of Marise Sorel's play sang itself over and over in Garth's brain to wild, strange music, as the taxi flashed him to the Plaza; for there was spring in the air, in the bursting buds on the trees in the park—and in his breast. She must have changed her mind. She must mean to give him some hope, or she wouldn't have sent for him to come back. That would be too cruel—even for her, as he had thought her yesterday, when there was no spring, only winter in his heart and soul.
It was not till he had been rushed up in the lift, and a page-boy had knocked at the door, that the hope seemed too good to be true. Perhaps she merely wished to apologise for being rude? Yet—even that would be better than nothing. It was what he hadn't dared expect—being sent for again. He had resolved to see her in spite of herself, but she was making things easy. This time, not Céline, but Marise herself opened the door. The sight of her gave the man a shock of joy, though she hardly looked him in the face.
"You're very kind to be so prompt," she glossed over the surface of their emotions. "Come in. I—I've something special to say to you."
"So I judged," he helped her out.
"We shan't be disturbed by anyone to-day. I've arranged that."
"I'm glad."
She sat down with her back to the light and made him take a chair facing the window. He knew too little of women to realise that this was deliberate; but he noticed that she seemed more of a woman, less of a girl to-day. Perhaps, he thought, this was because she wore a black dress. It was filmy and becoming to her fairness; but it made her graver, more dignified. As for Marise, she liked his looks better this afternoon. He had not had time to "dress himself up"; and his morning suit of tweed was not objectionable. She remembered once arguing with Severance that the "Blighter" might be distinguished-looking, even handsome, if decently dressed. She was in a fair way to be proved right to-day, but she was in no mood for self-congratulation. The man's personality didn't matter in the least, she told herself. Yet she was subconsciously burning with curiosity concerning him.
"First of all—before we start on our real talk, I'd like to ask you a question," she began. "Did you send Miss Marks here, to—" ("to spy," she had almost said!)—"to try and get work as my secretary?"
"I did not," promptly replied Garth.
"But you knew her—before yesterday."
"I knew her out in Arizona, before the war. She'd written me since she was working at the Belmore. That was how I happened to think of going there before I went over to England in 1914. She's a good stenographer, and a good girl. Since I landed she's done a lot of letters for me, and done them very well."
"She's clever!" admitted Marise. "I asked, because I never quite understood now she happened to come here to see if I wanted a secretary. Besides, there's something in her manner—the way she looks at me—I hardly know what—but as if she had reasons of her own for being interested——"
"Perhaps she had. And perhaps it's my fault," Garth spoke out. "You see, I'd set my heart on sending you a few presents, something not just ordinary. It popped into my head to do that the day I landed. Reading about you in the papers gave me the idea. But it didn't seem easy, when it came to choosing. Miss Marks began work for me that same afternoon, for I had a heap of back correspondence, and I hate writing. I couldn't keep my mind on the dictation for wondering what I could send you, different from everything and better than anything. That's how I said to myself, 'Why not ask Zélie Marks what there is to buy in New York?' And that is what I did."
"I thought as much!" exclaimed Marise.
"But I didn't tell her about you. I didn't mention who the things were for. I just described the lady. I said, 'She's beautiful, with golden hair and blue eyes, and dark eyelashes and dazzling white skin. She's tall and slender, and I expect she's rich and has everything she wants. The things I'd like to give her must be so new she hasn't had time to want them yet, but so stunning she won't know how she lived without 'em.' Miss Marks hit on the right stunt from the first. Your name has never been spoken between us till yesterday, when we went out of this room together. I suppose you believe me, don't you?"
"Yes, I believe you," Marise grudged. "Miss Marks simply guessed. But I wonder how? Could she have seen your theatre tickets—seats for every performance of 'The Song'?"
"By George, yes! She may—must have done. I ordered them the first day at my hotel. They were in a bunch, tickets for three weeks, fastened with an elastic band, on the desk where she worked. I've got a private sitting-room, like a howling swell."
"So Miss Marks chose all those exquisite things!"
"She told me about 'em, and where to look. Then I went, and picked out in my mind's eye what I wanted. I always had a messenger-boy waiting in a taxi, and sent him in to buy, and pay on the spot, for fear someone else should jump in ahead. That kept up the mystery. I didn't care to have you find out at once that the things came from me. I was afraid it would queer the whole business for you."
"So it would!" Marise might have capped him. But she did not. Instead, she asked, "But surely you meant me to know sooner or later—or where would be the fun?"
"There was plenty of fun in sending the presents and knowing the secret myself," said Garth. "Silly, I guess! But there it was! And—I might as well tell you now—I did kind of hope you'd try to get at the truth, one way or another, just from pure devilment."
"You were right. I did! 'Just from pure devilment.' In the same way that Miss Marks got work with me. She must have been enjoying herself these days!"
"She's a nice girl," Garth defended the absent.
"Oh, I don't mean to discharge her. There's no reason why I should. She's useful to me. I shan't seem to know anything about this. But I wanted to ask you."
"I'm mighty pleased you did," said the man. "I'd have been—just what your friend calls me, if I'd sent her to get an engagement with you."
Colour stole into Marise's pale cheeks. She had been more interested in the subject of her secretary's connection with Garth than she had expected to be when bringing it up, and for a few minutes had actually forgotten the loathed burden on her heart.
"Let's say no more about Miss Marks!" the girl exclaimed. "My inviting you to call to-day had nothing to do with her. I only thought I'd—clear the air."
"Is it cleared now?" Garth wanted to know. "I hope it is. If not——"
"Oh, it is—quite!"
"Then you're ready to tell me the real thing you have to say?"
"Ye—es.... Only I...." She paused. Her lips had gone so dry that she could hardly speak. Her brain felt dry, too—desiccated. She had not thought it would be like this. Stage-fright—the worst attack of stage-fright she could remember—had not been worse. Yet she cared little or nothing for this man's opinion, she reminded herself, except as it concerned the plan. "I—it's very difficult."
"Is there anything I can do to help?" he offered eagerly.
Marise caught at his words. "That's just it! There's a very big thing you can do to help."
"You know I'll do it," Garth volunteered. "You know that, because there's nothing I wouldn't do. I told you so yesterday."
"If you hadn't, I should not have sent for you to-day."
"I wish you wanted me to kill somebody for you." (She guessed, by the fierce gleam in his eyes, what "body"!) "I'd go to 'the chair' singing."
"Oh!" she laughed feebly. "It's not as bad as that." (But wasn't it?) "You—you said several things here yesterday afternoon. One was, that you——"
"That I love you! Was that what you mean?"
"Yes."
"Well, it's the same to-day. Only more so."
"Even after—I'm afraid I was very selfish and thoughtless. I wasn't as nice to you as I ought to have been, after I'd got you to come, and—and——"
"You weren't nice to me at all," Garth gave her the truth bluntly. "I went away trying to hate you, but I didn't bring it off. Hate, if it starts from love, is a good deal like a boomerang, I guess. It comes back to what it was born from. And the friction stirs up the flame till it's hotter. Now, tell me that thing I can do for you. Because the quicker I hear what it is, the quicker I can set about it."
Marise threw up her head and drew in a long breath. She might have done the same if she had come, with a running jump, to the edge of a precipice.
"Would you—like to marry me?" she gasped.
The man bounded from his chair, and with a stride landed himself beside her. He had knocked over a smaller chair on the way, but this time he was untroubled by his clumsiness. He grabbed, rather than took, the girl's hand. She was afraid he would drop on his knees, and that would have been more than she could bear, because it was what Severance had done. But this stiff-backed soldier kept to his feet. He held her hand high, so high that the blood drained from it to her heart, and the little hand was white in his (save for the pink, polished nails) as a marble model. "You've changed your mind?" he asked hoarsely—because his mouth, too, was suddenly dry. "You know I love you more than any other man could. So you think, after all, you might grow to care?"
"It isn't that," she had to tell him. "I haven't—exactly—changed my mind. This hasn't anything to do with 'caring.' Only, if you do love me—as much as you say—you might be willing..." She could not finish. She felt his fingers suddenly tighten on hers, then loose them, as if he would dash her hand away. He did not do this. But, looking up, the girl saw that the man's face was scarlet. She even thought that a few beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. What had she said to move him like that? "Why, she hadn't even begun!
"What is it?" she inquired. "What is it you think I mean?" Her eyes were large and innocent as a child's.
The blood ebbed slowly from the weathered face. "Whatever I thought, I don't think it now," he said harshly. "No one could, and look at you. Go on."
"But," she argued, "perhaps what you thought was right. I can't be sure, unless you tell me."
"I'd sooner die than tell you."
"Well, then I had better try and tell you what I do mean. After that you can see if your thought was the same. If so, and you feel it is so dreadful, you may go, and turn your back on me without another word."
"No, I wouldn't turn my back on you. Not even for that—now." The words left his lips heavily, like falling stones; and there was a strange look in his face. If it had come there in battle, it might have meant desperate courage which nothing could daunt and would have brought him a bar for his Victoria Cross. But being in a hotel salon, with no enemy present more dangerous than a beautiful young girl, it was only mulish.
"Would you want to marry me if I didn't love you one bit, and if we—didn't live together, except as friends? You and mother and I, all in the same house?"
He did not answer for a moment. Then he rapped out, "Do you need a husband to protect you—against some danger?"
Marise shook her head. "It isn't so romantic as that. No one is persecuting me. I—cared a little for somebody. I thought maybe he and I might be married. But things have altered with him. He has to marry a very rich girl. I haven't got money enough, it seems—although he loves me."
"The damned brute!" burst from Garth. (He knew who the "brute" was, well enough.)
"Don't call him that," Marise pleaded. "I understand how things are with him. But——"
"I suppose people have coupled your names. Good God, I'm thankful you sent for me! No one shall ever say he jilted you. It shall be the other way round. When will you marry me, girl?"
It was a new and piercing thought to Marise that, if Severance went home immediately and married his cousin, people would suppose she had been jilted. She, so sensitive to every breeze which blew praise or blame, ought to have realised that this would be the case.
Strange that it needed a blundering fellow like John Garth to point out the peril. The girl saw at once that it was a real one. She shrank from the prospect as from a lash. She could hear the "cats" who had already been "horrid" in England, and the cats awaiting their chance to be horrid in New York, mewing with joy over this creamy dish of scandal.
"I told you how it would be! As soon as he got the title, and a little money with it, he threw her over!"
In a flash she saw a second motive for her marriage with Garth, if Severance were to marry Œnone Ionides. She must marry someone, and she hadn't the heart just now to pick and choose as, of course, she could do, given a little time. Prickling with shame over the explanation which she tried stumblingly to make, her impulse was to catch at the one Garth offered. Why not, since now that she thought of it, his point of view was hers? Pain would be saved for both. And she realised that she could not blurt out the naked truth in words. It seemed to her that, if she attempted to do so, this rude giant, this primitive man in New York "ready-mades," would kill her, as he had already suggested killing Severance.
"Then you consent?" she took him up.
"Consent? What do you think of me? Yes, I consent."
"Only to be friends? You understand that part?"
"I agree to that, to begin with. Because I'm so mad about you. I'd take you at any price."
"To 'begin with'?"
"Till I can make you care. I'm a man and you're a woman. And the rest may come. I'll chance it."
"No. You mustn't hope for that. It won't come. I don't want it to come."
"Hope isn't easy to kill. If it was, I guess the war wouldn't have ended the way it has. You don't know how I love you. Why, the thought even of calling you 'my wife' is—is a kind of glorious shell-shock."
He laughed out, shyly yet violently, like a boy: and of a sudden Marise felt sick with guilt. "I mustn't let you be happy!" she cried.
"Why not? You needn't grudge me that. But you haven't named the day yet—Marise. Lord! The thrill it gives me to say 'Marise' to your face—the way I've been saying it behind your back."
"You make me feel—a little beast!" The words spoke themselves, straight out of her conscience. "I can't fix a time yet, because—if I'd explained to you properly you mightn't have decided as you have. And it's no use trying any more. I can't do it. Oh!" (as she saw his face flush again, and pale to a sickly brown) "perhaps I see what was in your head at first—what's come back there now. But I'm not so much of a beast as that. My wishing to marry someone has nothing to do with the past. No, the reason's all mixed up with the future. You could never guess. I could never explain. And I couldn't let you marry me unless everything had been explained. I thought for a minute I could—and I wanted to—but I find I'm not like that. Tony—Lord Severance—must explain. Yes, of course. When I've telephoned—no, written to him—he will do it. I haven't really spoken to him of you yet. He doesn't even know that—you care about me. If I make an appointment, will you call at the Waldorf, where he is staying?"
"No!" Garth exploded. "That I will not do. I'll see Severance, if you insist. I'll keep an appointment at any time. But it must be at my hotel. I'm damned if I'll call on him!"
The note Marise meant to write was not written; for, as the door of the suite shut behind John Garth, Mrs. Sorel came to the girl with news.
"Dear child, I promised you shouldn't be disturbed, whatever happened, but Tony has been telephoning for the sixth time to-day. Poor boy! He's very anxious about you. Don't look so cynical! If your face should ever settle into lines like that, your beauty would be gone! This time he wanted to know if you're better for your long sleep, and if you can see him."
"No, I can't, mother! Not till something's decided. I simply can't act to-night if I have to go through another scene with him."
"Oh, I'm not suggesting it, pet! I merely wanted to know what I should say to poor Tony. I told him that I'd call him up and give him his answer when you were free."
Marise started. "Did you say who was here with me?"
"Ye-es, I thought it would be best. I imagined you must be very sure the man was—the one we're in search of."
The girl shivered. "Marise in Search of a Husband! We never expected it would come to that with me, did we, Mums? But anyhow, I hadn't to search far. That's one consolation! I was snapped up the minute I appeared in the show window."
"Well, Tony was wrong about that Garth man, then!"
"Yes, he was wrong. I must write and let him know why Garth came—unless you told him why?"
"I said only what I dared say through the telephone. You know how careful I am of anything that concerns you. What I told him was, 'Major G——' (not even Garth!) 'has come to talk over that proposition you thought he wouldn't accept. His staying so long makes me fancy he may be accepting after all.' That is every word."
"Good! I shan't need to write! Please 'phone again, Mums, and explain that I don't feel as if I could see Tony till after the theatre. He may come to my dressing-room a few minutes then, if he likes. You can bring him in. I won't be alone with him for an instant! Tell him that I talked with Garth, who's inclined to accept. But I left it to him—Tony—to make matters clear, and he must telephone Garth for an appointment at the Belmore—not the Waldorf."
"Severance to go to Garth! He'll refuse——"
"Then the whole thing is off!" Marise threw out her arms in a gesture of exasperation. "He can take the offer or leave it."
Mary said no more, but flew to the 'phone in her own room, with the door shut between. Presently she came back. "Tony has consented," she announced. "Another proof of his great love!"
Never had Lord Severance felt that he appeared to less advantage than when he was shown into the Bounder's sitting-room at the Belmore Hotel. He held himself very straight, however, and was every inch an Ancient Greek, if not an English earl.
Garth had been engaged in writing a letter and puffing smoke over it from a meerschaum pipe some shades browner than his face.
At sight of Severance, and the sound of his name deformed by a page-boy, the big man rose, topping his tall guest in height and erectness.
"Well?" was his only greeting, as the door closed. He pushed a box of cigarettes across the table. "Those are the smokes you prefer, I believe."
"Thanks. I have my own. And my own matches."
"All right." Garth continued to puff at his pipe.
"You have seen Miss Sorel, I understand."
"That is so."
"She—or rather Mrs. Sorel—'phoned me that—er—though you'd had some conversation, the—affair hadn't been entirely explained to you. That's as it should be. It's my business, and my place, to explain it."
"Fire away. Do you want to sit down?"
"I prefer to stand."
"My sentiments!"
Severance lit a cigarette, and took some time in the process.
"It's rather a long story," he drawled, not with a conscious desire to put on airs, but because his wasn't an easy task, with that bounder's yellow eyes pinning him down, never off his face for a second.
"I'm afraid, to make you understand and prevent your doing an injustice to Miss Sorel, I'll have to bore you, in beginning, with a short résumé of my personal history."
"Spit it out. Though you needn't fear my doing that lady an injustice. It would take something worse than a lack of tact on your part, or any man's, to make me such a fool."
"Glad you feel so about it"
"So am I. Shoot!"
Thus prodded without ceasing, Severance began the tale. He told about his half-uncle, and his half-uncle's daughter. Whether it was Œnone's state of invalidism or the state of her affections which drew from Garth, a grunt of "Poor girl!" Tony was not sure. But, in the circumstances, the less notice he took of disturbing trifles the better. He stated his case with as much care as if he had been pleading in court, as his own defender. In fact, he had rehearsed some sentences hastily on his way from the Waldorf to the Belmore. Yet those eyes of Garth's were as disconcerting as the watchful eyes of an uncaged panther, alleged to be tame. Severance forgot the words he had thought of, and had to substitute others not so effective. With the most earnest wish to cut the best figure possible, for dear dignity's sake, he felt himself floundering more than once. At least, however, he did not break down. Somehow he got to his goal, and knew that even a boor like Garth could not fail to see what—if he took on the job—was required of him.
"So that's that!" Tony finished, and threw away his cigarette.
He had not been looking at the other man much as he talked. It was easier and pleasanter not to do so; but, despite Garth's silence (not once had he interrupted with a question or exclamation), Severance wasn't quite sure how this type of fellow would act in the circumstances.
Of course, the bare hint that he might accept such a part would be the last of insults to a proud man—a gentleman. Garth, however, was merely a "temporary gentleman," and probably hadn't saved a sou. To a person of his sort, a million dollars would be a dazzling bribe. Still, the brute had an ugly temper, as he had shown once or twice in the past, and he was capable of violence. Tony was doubtful, still, how to take him. Common as the Bounder was, his brother officer had vaguely placed him a peg above this level. The black eyes made a sudden effort to dominate the yellow-grey ones and read their secret, in order—if need be—to ward away a blow.
But there was no such need, it seemed. Garth stood with feet apart, always doggedly puffing at his pipe, hands thrust deep in pockets. He had produced a cloud of smoke as dense as that which emanated from a Geni of the Lamp, and Severance could not pierce to his expression.
For a minute neither spoke. Then Garth brought forth from the depths a hand, removed the meerschaum from his mouth, and, having knocked out the ash, lovingly laid the pipe on the mantelpiece.
Severance stood alert, prepared for what might come. But nothing came.
"What did Miss Sorel say about me?" Garth bluntly questioned. "I mean yesterday or to-day."
"We have scarcely mentioned you when we were together. I told you it was her mother who telephoned me. There has been no other communication on the subject. I hope I've made it plain to you that Mrs. Sorel approves this plan."
"Plain as a pikestaff. She would approve of it, or any plan of yours. I should judge she's that kind of a person. She thinks her daughter born for the English aristocracy and millions. Then I'm to understand that the ladies gave you no reason for believing me the man—to take this on?"
"They went into no details. Miss Marks may have led them——"
"We can drop the subject. All I wanted to know is what they said, not what they thought. Well, a million dollars is quite a wad! And every man has his price. I'd do a lot for a million. But in this case——"
"Yes?"
"I ask you to raise your bid if you wish to buy yours truly."
"Oh, if it's a question of a few thousands——"
"It isn't. I'll take the rest of the payment in another medium. Not money. And I want it in advance."
"What d'you want?"
"You're a boxer, I believe?"
"Not bad."
"Heavy-weight, of course!"
"Yes."
"So am I. Jim Jackson trained me, and taught me most of what I know."
"Ah! I've heard of him."
"Most men have."
"What are you leading up to?"
"My advance payment for the job. I take it on only upon that one condition."
"I don't fully understand."
"Well, as I just said, a million's quite a wad, and I, like every man, have my price. Also, I've my pride. Now, you don't know the reasons I may have for deciding to pocket that pride at the same time with your millions. Take it that they're mercenary. What does it matter to you? But even a gilded pill slips down easier in jam. The jam I want is a round or two with you, man to man, no gloves. Now d'you understand?"
"You want to fight me?"
"A little round, I said. We ought to be pretty evenly matched."
"It seems to me a very childish idea," said Severance.
"May be it is. But it's my idea. And those are my terms. Refuse or accept."
Severance fingered his moustache in the way he had. "When do you want to do this damned fool thing, and in what circumstances?" he hedged.
"Now. Circumstances those of the present minute. We can take off our coats. I suppose you don't wear corsets?"
Severance deigned no answer to this taunt. He thought hard for an instant. He was a good boxer, and had been complimented before the war by Carpentier himself. Garth was unlikely to be his equal. If the ass wanted to work off steam and save his beastly face this silly way, let him!
"If I consent to fight, you consent to—er——"
"Yes, whether you or I get the best of this."
"Done, then!"
They tore off their coats, collars, neckties, and waist-coats. Garth had a sullen, ugly grin on his face as he pushed back the table and cleared the room. Severance did not know what to make of the man, but had confidence in himself.
Two hours later the telephone-bell rang in Mrs. Sorel's room. She was putting on hat and coat to go to the theatre with Marise, but she ran to take up the receiver.
"Is that your voice, Lord Severance—Tony? Why, I wasn't sure at first," she answered an indistinct murmur at the other end. "You sound different, somehow! What? You've had a fall? Loosened a front tooth? Oh, my poor dear boy—your beautiful white teeth! Marise will shed tears. Of course, you mustn't leave your rooms to-night.... Indeed, you must be sure he's the best dentist in New York. He'll fix you up in no time.... Why, yes, I suppose I can run in, without Marise, just for a minute ... if it would comfort you at all.... The man Gar—said 'yes'? Well, that's a consolation! You settled the whole thing before your accident? But you'll tell me the story when I come."
For the first time, Garth did not go to the theatre that night. Never had he felt more physically fit, but he did not wish to see Marise. He felt that he would not be master of himself, through her "great scene" in the last act. He would want to spring on the stage and choke her. As he thought this, he looked at his knuckles. They were cracked and bruised, but the sight did not displease him. He stretched out his arms wide in a sweeping gesture, his hands spread palm upwards.
"God!" he said. "I've got my chance. To punish him. To punish her, too. Why not? The devil knows how well she deserves it. And yet—I don't know. We shall see!"
While two men thought violently of Marise Sorel, she lay in bed as night wore on, intent upon thinking of one of them, and inadvertently thinking of both.
Severance hadn't shown himself at the theatre because, thanks to Garth, he was not looking his best. Neither was Garth, who, on the contrary, looked and felt his worst. Unlike Severance, however, he had very little personal vanity; and a black eye or so would not have prevented him from going as usual to gaze at "Dolores." He did not go because he didn't wish to go.
Smoking pipe after pipe, he prowled up and down his own sitting-room far into the night, much to the annoyance of a lady on the floor below. He mapped out a future full of revenges; and if "thoughts were things," his must have hurled themselves like Mills bombs into Marise's room, to burst at the foot of her bed. He did not flatter himself that they would reach so far; yet possibly it was some disturbing telepathic influence which forced Marise to think of Garth as often as of Severance, almost as often as she thought of herself.
She thought with fury of Severance, with extraordinary curiosity of Garth, and with pitying forgiveness of herself.
Of course, she knew that she was behaving, or planning possibly to behave, in a way which should bow her head with shame. Perhaps she was a little ashamed. At all events, she wouldn't have liked people to know what she contemplated doing, and with what motive. They might misunderstand. They might think her a bad lot, whereas she was not a bad lot, but a charming, cruelly-wounded girl who had to defend herself at almost any price.
Well, she wasn't claiming to be anangel! She'd hate to be one. It would be too dull. But she was just as far from being a "Vamp," or even a sort of up-to-date Becky Sharp. Becky Sharp had no heart. She, Marise, had too much. That was the trouble. She was hurt, hurt through and through! She'd go mad if she didn't do something desperate.
To marry this Garth man—actuallymarryhim!—would be desperate enough. She'd said that she'd do it. She had—yes, actually proposed to him. But she could change her mind. Surely he wouldn't be surprised if she did. And if he were surprised it didn't matter, except that—he was such a strange sort of fellow, he mightkillher! It was rather a wonder he hadn't killed Tony—or tried to. She would somehow have fancied he was thatsort! But she must have been mistaken in him. Mums said that Tony'd said (through the 'phone) that Garth had accepted the promise of a million dollars for—for being what she'd herself invited him to be: her "dummy" husband.
What was his motive? Was it what she had actually believed: that he loved her so wildly he'd doanythingto get her? Or was Tony right; had every man his price in hard cash?
Marise sat up in bed. She couldn't lie still!
"By Jove, I wouldn't do such a thing if I were a man!" she nobly felt. "Not if I loved a girl. I wouldn't have her on such terms. Which is it with Garth?"
There it was again! She couldn't banish him from her thoughts. His big image blocked out that of Severance. But then, she wasn't curious concerning Severance. She knew all about his motives.
"I won't do the beastly thing!" she said out aloud, or almost aloud. If it had been quite, it might have brought Mums flying helpfully in from the next room, and Marise didn't want Mums at this moment. "I didn't mean it really, even at first."
Then she reminded herself that it wouldn'tkillher if people did think that Lord Severance had jilted her. She needn't marry out of pique because of a nine days' wonder like that. She had had plenty of proposals (though nothing quite so exciting as Tony, perhaps), and she was bound to have plenty more. Some millionaire would come along—someone she could bring herself to tolerate as a real husband, and so break Tony's heart, as he deserved. Till one worth taking appeared, she would remain free.
As for the title—well, Mums had always cared more about that than she had, though, of course, it would be nice to marry an earl—especially such a unique sort of earl as Tony Severance.
As Mums said, "Tonywasunique." He was so fearfully, frightfully good-looking. Such lots of girls wanted him. They had all envied her. If she lost him, they wouldn't envy her any more. They'd pity her. Ugh! They'd say, "Poor Marise Sorel thought she'd got him, but he slipped away and married his rich cousin."
This brought her down to bed-rock again.Shouldshe carry out the Plan, and make Tony hers in the end—which he vowed was very near?
There were quite a lot of earls; but none like Tony. She'd had, and would have, other chances. But not to touch Tony. Therewasn'tanything to touch Tony! And with all that money he'd talked about, he'd be a multi-millionaire. The whole world would be hers as his wife. Yet—there was "many a slip 'twixt cup and lip." Just supposing—oh well, she wouldn't think of it any more. It was maddening, agonising. She'd go to sleep and decide—actuallydecide—in the morning!
Marise flung herself down desperately, and burying her hot head in the cool pillows, she forced herself not to think.
When she waked, it was with the sensation that something hateful had happened or was going to happen.
What was it?Oh!...
The girl remembered the horrid thing, and how she had decided to keep free and punish Tony. Or had she quite decided? Hadn't she put off deciding?
How dull as lead it would be to give up this tremendous adventure to which she'd impulsively pledged—almostpledged!—herself! It might be a shocking and repulsive thing to do if some people did it, but it wouldn't, of course, be so with her.
Lots of people had said that "Dolores" was a coarse, unpleasant part when Elsa Fortescue had played it, but no one had said such a word when she had taken it over. On the contrary!
As this thought passed through her badly aching head, Marise dimly realised that marriage with Major Garth—accepting him as a dummy husband, having to fight him, perhaps; "seeing what he would do," whether he would try the old Claude Melnotte or Petruchio stuff, or whether he'd work up new business of his own—would be quite the most exacting emotional part for which she'd ever been cast.
Suddenly she saw how she could punish Tony severely, even though she fell in with his plans; how she could have that satisfaction, and at the same time the satisfaction of not losing him.
"It's like having your cake and eating it too!" she thought.
Shewouldmarry Garth. She'd marry him soon—muchsooner than Tony meant—as soon as a license could be got. She'd send for Garth and tell him so. She'd saysheknew no more about marriage licenses than dog licenses. That sounded rather smart! He must find out and arrange everything. The quicker the better. Tony shouldn't hear a thing about it till too late. Then he would besick! And in this wayhewould seem to be the jilted one. Splendid! His trip to England would be torture. And she'd make it a little worse by flirting with Garth under his nose before he sailed!
It was scarcely light when she settled all this. Then she could hardly wait till it was time to get up.
Strange! To many people this would be a day like any other! To Céline, to Zélie Marks—ah,Zélie Marks!
The eyes of Marise flashed like blue stars in the dawn.
Miss Marks was punctual that morning, as usual.
She looked like a creature of moods and storms and sudden revolts, but her behaviour as a typist-stenographer belied her appearance as a woman. Not only was she always on time, but she was invariably correct in her deportment. Yes, "deportment" was the word! No other would have enough dignity to express Miss Marks.
As a rule, Mrs. Sorel came into the salon soon after the arrival of the secretary, leaving no idle interval after the preparation of paper, pencils, and sorting of letters. Zélie Marks remembered only one occasion when Miss Sorel had appeared before her mother. That was the day when she was anxious to find a certain letter in the bulky pile of correspondence, and make sure that no eye spied it save her own.
Zélie happened to be thinking of that affair to-day, when the door of Marise's bedroom opened and a Vision showed itself upon the threshold. "Good morning, Miss Marks," it said.
"Good morning, Miss Sorel," echoed its paid employée.
The said employée would not have been human had she never felt qualms of envy of the Vision. Sometimes it was merely a negative discomfort like a grumbling tooth that doesn't quite ache. Sometimes it was sharply positive; and this was such a moment. Queer! Zélie always envied Marise most when she saw the girl in what Mrs. Sorel called "undress uniform."
There were few young women even among wage-earners who couldn't make a fairly brave show in a neat tailor gown or a "Sunday best" for Church Parade. But only the Truly Rich could have such heavenly "undies," and only the young and lovely—lovely of figure as well as of face—could look in them more thrilling than the wondrous wax ladies in shop windows, or the willowy dreams of line-artists in fashion magazines.
Zélie had never had, and felt that she never would have (though she was sure sheoughtto have!) such things as Marise Sorel wore in her bedroom. They were utterly absurd, almost indecent, she told herself. What could be more idiotic for cold weather than a pale pink, low-necked, short-sleeved chiffon nightgown, with the only solid thing about it a few embroidered wild roses! What more brainless than arobe de chambreof deeper pink silk georgette, trimmed with sable fur in all the places where fur couldn't possibly give warmth?
She, Zélie Marks, wore comfortable delaine night-dresses at this time of year, and wadded kimonos. She respected herself for her economy and good sense. But she wished she were Miss Sorel!
"Miss Marks," said Marise, "can you keep a secret?"
Zélie smiled. "In my work, I have to keep a good many."
"I suppose you do! Well, will you keep one for me?"
"Certainly."
"That's a promise! Now—I shall surprise you very much."
Zélie smiled politely, and waited.
"I'm—going to be married."
"Pardon me, Miss Sorel," said Zélie, in rather a stilted, professional manner, "but that doesn't surprise me at all."
"You haven't heard the name of the man yet."
"No. You haven'ttoldme that."
"You mean, you believe you've guessed?"
"I hope you don't think me presumptuous?"
"Of course not! Why should it be—such a long word? Guessing's free! But I wonder if youhaveguessed?"
Zélie allowed herself to look slightly bored. If Miss Sorel were going to be married, and leave for England, she wouldn't want a secretary long, so there was no need to grovel! "Do you wish me to try?" she asked primly.
"Yes."
"The Earl of Severance."
Marise had known she would say that, yet she blushed. "Lord Severance and I are quite old pals," she replied. "This is something much newer and more exciting! I'm going to marry your friend Major Garth."
There were few warmer-hearted girls, few who hated more to give pain, than Marise, yet as she spoke she fixed her eyes—minx-like, if not lynx-like—on the face of Miss Marks. Even when she saw it go pale—that greenish pallor of olive complexions—and then a dull, unbecoming red which gave the dark eyes a bloodshot effect, she wasn't conscious of repentance for what she had done. She had an odd, unpleasant feeling that Miss Marks had no right to turn pale and red about a manshewas going to marry. So instead of softening, she went on, hard as nails.
"Don't forget it's agreatsecret. I want to spring a surprise oneveryone. Will you please 'phone him—Major Garth—at the Belmore for me? I haven't got time now to call him myself. Just ask him to come round in three-quarters of an hour. I'll have had my coffee and be dressed by then, if I rush."
"Very well, Miss Sorel," agreed Zélie, controlling her voice. After which she added, "I hope you'll allow me to congratulate you."
Marise laughed a funny little laugh. "Thanks! But doesn't one 'wish joy' to the bride and 'congratulate' the bridegroom?"
By this time Zélie was at the telephone, but she turned, and her black eyes darted at Marise one small flame of the fire in her heart. "I wish you joy, of course," she said. "But Imustcongratulate you too, because I've known Ja—Major Garth since before the war, and I know what heis. He'sgreat! If you lumped together most of the best men you've met, they wouldn't makeoneJohn Garth!"
"Ha ha! heisvery big!" giggled Marise. "Quite an out-size."
Zélie could have boxed the ears under the delicious boudoir cap. They deserved to be boxed!
"Hissoulis big!" the older girl snapped. "I only hope you—I mean, there aren't many women capable of appreciating him. But, of course, you must be, or you wouldn't have succumbed to him so soon."
"Succumbed!" Marise flung back the word with just the least shrug of her shoulders. For an instant the two glared at each other, though "glare" is a melodramatic word which doesn't chime well with nicely-brought-up girls in the twentieth century. When Marise, as a child, had looked at anyone in that way, she called it "snorting with her eyes."
Now, it was only for a third of a second. Then Miss Marks applied herself to the telephone, and never had her neat back looked so square and business-like. There was no more time to waste upon useless repartees with a secretary, so Marise bolted to her own room.
She meant and wished to be dressed and fed in three-quarters of an hour, but never had she quite brought off that feat—at least, never since she'd become a successful star; and she didn't quite bring it off now. Her hair was being done when Mums tapped and entered upon the scene. She looked grave and rather worried, though she never actually frowned, for fear of wrinkles.
"That man Garth has come," she announced in a low voice. "What an hour for a call! Do you wish to see him?"
"I sent for him," Marise explained. "Didn't he tell you? Or haven't you spoken to him?"
"I have spoken to him, but he didn't tell me," said Mary Sorel. "I came into the salon, and there he was with Miss Marks. I was never so surprised in my life!"
"I don't see why, as you know perfectly well I'm going to marry him," returned Marise. "Oh, Céline! you've dug a hairpin about aninchinto my head! Now mind, whatever you hear us say must go no further."
"But certainly not, Mademoiselle," vowed Céline, who spoke excellent English, though the two ladies loved proudly to air their French for her benefit. "It is indeed true that Mademoiselle will marry thisMonsieur American?"
"It is indeed true," Marise repeated drily.
"It won't take place—I mean the wedding—for some time, however," Mrs. Sorel hurried to add.
Marise said nothing, but looked suddenly as mulish as a beautiful girl can look. She had been wondering whether or no to confide in Mums what was in her mind, and see what Mums would say and think about it. But on the instant she decided "No." Sheknewbeforehand what Mums would think and say. Everything would be from Tony's point of view. Mums was obsessed with the wonder and majesty and glory of the great—soon to be the rich—Lord Severance! The news should be sprung on Mums at the last moment, when everything was "fixed up."
Meanwhile, Zélie was snatching a few words with Garth—not the words she wanted personally to speak, but as nearly those as she dared.
"Jack Garth!" she whispered, "Miss Sorel told me just now you and she are going to bemarried. She wasn'tjoking?"
"I hope not," said Garth steadily, "because I'd be—rather cut up if I thought it was a joke."
"Listen, Jack," Zélie hurried on. "We're pals—we've been pals for a long time. Iwantyou to be happy. I'd do a whole lot to make you happy. So you've justgotto forgive me if I say....Doyou know what you're doing?Canyou be happy? That girl—I mean, Miss Sorel—doesn't love you any more than she does me. And that isn't alittlebit!"
"I love her," said Garth. "I don't care a damn whether I'm happy or not."
"Oh! Then it's all right. Of course, Isupposeyou know your own business. Still—Jack—I can't help feeling there's something queer—some sort of mystery. Don't let yourself be deceived."
"I'm not being deceived."
"I hope not, I'm sure. But—oh,doforgive me!—it's Lord Severance she loves."
"Then the sooner she unloves him the better it will be all around."
"I know you think I'm a meddler. But remember we're friends. Remember Mothereen told me to be your friend, Jack. Those two Sorel women think Severance the perfect beau ideal of a man. They look upon you—oh, I can't say it!"
"You needn't," Garth drily assured her; "I'm a cad; a bounder; a lout."
"Thebeasts! I hate them both!" Zélie gasped. "They're not worthy to black your boots."
"I mostly wear brown ones," said Garth.
"You're right to snub me. I won't say any more. You must go your own way, and I hope—I hope with all my heart" (Zélie choked a little) "you'll never regret it. But just thisonething let me beg you to do. Whatever they're up to, don't give them the chance to despise you. I mean, in little things. Theycan'tin big! I saw the way they looked at—at your clothes Sunday afternoon, Jack. I could havethrownsomething at them!—not the clothes, but the Sorels—and Severance, the conceited Greek snob! But the clothesweren'tright, boy. They didn't do you justice. They had a sort of 'Sunday-go-to-meeting' look: kind ofsmug! And your gloves and shoesjustthe wrong yellow! For heaven's sake don't lose a minute in going to a good tailor if you don't want your life to be a hell!"
Garth laughed out, a hard, spasmodic laugh; and at that instant Marise came in.
A girl in love with one man, flinging herself at the head of another out of pique or something worse, should have been utterly careless how she appeared to the eyes of the latter. But for some reason—she hardly knew what—Marise had been anxious to look her most desirable. She was dressed in black velvet with shimmering fringes, and a drooping black velvet hat which made her fairness dazzling, her yellowish-brown hair bright gold.
With a faint smile, and in silence, she held out her hand. Garth took it, and this time didn't crush it unduly.
Zélie, who had risen as Garth rose, began pinning on her toque, but Marise turned to her. "Don't go, Miss Marks," she said. "I've told you the secret, and maybe we shall need your help about something. I don't want my mother here till everything's arranged. It doesn't matter about you."
Zélie slowly took out a hatpin. Oh no, it didn't matter abouther! She laid the toque down again, but drew a chair to the typewriter table, her back turned to the man and the girl. She could, if she glanced up from her papers, however, see them both in a mirror. She tried not to glance up, but she succeeded about half as often as she failed. The look on Garth's face hurt a great deal worse than the hatpin had done when just now she had jammed the point of it into her head. Oh, it was ridiculous—or heartbreaking—the way some men loved the wrong girls!
"I've been thinking in the night," said Marise in a brisk, cheerful tone, "what fun for us—since weareto be married—to get married at once and give everyone we know the surprise of their young lives!... What do you say?"
Garth had not expected this at all. In fact, when he'd been sent for at a very early hour, he expected to hear that Marise had "changed her mind." It was easy for her to ask "what he said," knowing that he could say only commonplaces before Zélie Marks; and he believed that Zélie had been invited to remain in the room for precisely this reason.
"I say, 'Great!'" He rose to the occasion, with the memory of Zélie's words and his own drumming through his head. "They despise you. Cad: bounder: lout!" "That's nice of you!—very!" cooed Marise, noticing how his jaw squared, and feeling the tide of her curiosity rise. (Wasit love? Orwasit the million?) "Well then, we'll just do the deed! How long does it take to get licenses and things?"
Garth kept himself firmly in hand. "Only as long as it takes to buy the license and notify a parson."
"That's what I hoped," said Marise. "I felt sure it was different here from England."
"Shall we—that is, would you care"—(Garth's mouth was dry)—"would you care to be married to-day?"
"Yes," the girl flashed back, "I would care to, if that suits you. Because, you see, I want it to be done and over before—anybody knows. Except my mother, of course. She won't like the idea one bit. But I'll make her come round."
"I see," said Garth. And he did see. He saw very clearly. But he could not understand, all in a moment like this, why she wanted to marry him without letting Severance know beforehand. It didn'tseem, just on the face of it, a good sign for Severance. Still, he couldn't be sure. Women were supposed to be very subtle, and he'd never had much time even to try and analyse the strange creatures. Except Mothereen (he'd named her that because she was Irish), the little old woman who'd given him the only mothering he remembered, Garth had never got very near any woman's mentality. He braced himself, and asked, "How soon can you be ready?"
"In an hour—inlessthan an hour. As soon as I've told Mums," Marise spoke quickly and thickly, over a beating heart. Each moment excited her more and more. She felt herself the heroine of a thrilling drama—a drama where she had to play the star part without any rehearsals, and without ever having read further than the first scene of the first act. It might be a drama of "stunts," too—as the movie people said: dangerous stunts, where she might have to walk a tightrope with a deep drop underneath. But she wasn't afraid. She would not have thrown over the part now if some other easier one with the same ending had offered. She didn't recognise herself as she was to-day. But she did not care. It was all Tony's fault. Or perhaps a little Mums' fault too.
"And afterwards?" she heard Garth quietly asking.
"Oh!... Well, the first thing is the fun of surprising everyone. After that—well, I haven't exactly thought yet."
"You had better think," he said. "Much better."
Marise glanced at the back of Zélie's head, then met Miss Marks's eyes in the mirror.
"We'll talk it over presently with Mums. She's sowise—and always knows how to do the right thing." The "correct thing" would have been more apt an expression, but Marise wasn't thinking of the fine shades. She was thinking just then more of Zélie; and the thought of Zélie made her blush, she didn't quite see why!
"Miss Marks," she said, "I may want you by and by to take down several notes for me, letters to some of my most intimate friends, to be sent after—after the wedding. But at this particular instant I fancy there's nothing more for you to do, except—oh yes, do be very nice, and run down to the mail counter, or wherever in the hotel you can buy stamps."
As these instructions were being given, Zélie pencilled with incredible quickness a few words on a scrap of paper. This scrap she tucked up her sleeve, and a second or two later, as Garth opened the door for her to go out, she contrived to slip the paper into the hand on the knob.
"Now I'll call Mums," cried Marise, fearing to risk such a moment alone with this unclassified wild animal, soon to become her dummy husband. "Mums is not pleased, because I said I wanted a few words with you before she came in—though she'd bemuchcrosser if she knew I'd let Miss Marks stay. You'll back me up with her, won't you, that my plan—ours, I mean—is the best?"
"I think," said Garth, "you don't need much backing from me with your mother, though if you do, I'll give it as well as I know how. But wait a second before she comes. I have a superstition. I ask that you won't be married in black."
"Oh! But I chose this dress on purpose!" The words escaped before she'd stopped to think.
Garth didn't flush. He was past that. He needed all his blood at his heart. "I supposed you did," he said. "All the same, don't wear it."
"But it's such a pretty dress—and hat. They're new. I like them—better than anything I've got."
"For this occasion!I understand."
"Are you—being sarcastic?" Marise hesitated.
"No-o. Only sincere. Why did you want to wear black to be married—to me?"
"I—don't know." She stammered a little.
"Well then, if you don't know, change to another colour."
"Oh, I'm quite willing to do that if you make a point of it!"
The man's manner was so different from the other day, that Marise was less sure of his motives in taking her at the price. He spoke shortly and sharply now, like a military martinet, she decided. But hewasn'texactly "common." He wasn't even ordinary.
Her last words were at the door of her own room, and she whisked through, to find her mother. She thought how she should break the news. And she thought, also, what she should wear in place of the black dress. Should she put on grey—or heliotrope—"second mourning"? She would have liked to try this trick upon Garth. But the man was capable of making her take off one thing after the other, on pain of not being married to-day—which meant, not spiting Severance.
Mrs. Sorel was flabbergasted.
She would not have used such a vulgar expression herself; but that is what she was.
She argued, she warned, she scolded, she besought. Severance would be furious. It would be a blow which his love might not survive. Tony had not dreamed of this marriage taking place with such—indecent haste!
"If you say much more it won't take place at all!" shrilled Marise, on the verge of hysterics, which (Mums knew from bitter experience) her twentieth-century child was not at all above having when thwarted, just like an early Edwardian.
While Marise was away, Garth opened the folded scrap of paper that Zélie Marks had slipped into his hand, and read the line she had pencilled.
"Forgoodness'sake don't be married in those awful best clothes of yours that you wore Sunday. Put on the uniform of theGuards, and look a regular man."
"Forgoodness'sake don't be married in those awful best clothes of yours that you wore Sunday. Put on the uniform of theGuards, and look a regular man."
He was in no mood for laughing, yet he grinned. "And look a regular man!" ... Girls were queer. As if it would matter to Marise whathewore! But—well, hang it, why shouldn't he make her notice him? She would do that if he turned up in uniform. And wasn't that what he wished to look in her eyes, "A regular man"?
He'd made up his mind to take Zélie's tip, when suddenly he remembered that Marise and he would not be married in church. They'd walk into some parson's parlour, and the knot would be tied there. He couldn't get into his uniform for a home-made affair like that.
Garth had gone no further than this when Marise came back, chaperoned by Mums.
"My mother makes one stipulation," the girl announced. "That the wedding shall be in a church. She's picked up English ideas, and thinks anything else 'hardly respectable.' Though I should have thought for that reason it would be more appropriate! However,Idon't care. Do you?"
"Not a da—not a red cent," said Garth.
Two minutes later he had gone to buy a marriage license, engage the services of a clergyman—and achurch.
Marise changed her dress. She would not wear white, like arealbride. That would be sacrilege, she said; and compromised by putting on her favourite blue. But it was the oldest dress she owned; and she had intended giving it to Céline.
The girl wished she were pale. But that could be arranged. And she was arranging it with powder when the bell of the telephone rang.
Mums flew to the instrument, tearfully drawing on her gloves.
Garth had called up, to give the name of the church and the hour fixed for the wedding. They must start at once.