had exactly the same feeling, when he thought of her in Etois, that he had when he thought of Edhart in Paradise. It started as resentment, but ended in a slate-gray loneliness. He could imagine himself as sitting here alone at one of these little iron tables, and decidedly it was not pleasant. When he pictured himself as returning to his room in the hotel and to the company of the hotel valet, it put him in a mood that augured ill for the valet. It would have been bad enough had he been able to resume his normal schedule and fill his time with golf; but, with even that relaxation denied him, such a situation as she proposed was impossible. For the present, at any rate, she was absolutely indispensable. She ought to know that a valet could not adjust a silk handkerchief properly, and that without this he could not even go upon the street. And who would read to him from the American papers? There was no further excuse, she said, for her to bring in his breakfasts, but if she did not sit opposite him at breakfast, what in thunder was the use of eating breakfast? If she had not begun breakfasting with him, then he would never have known the difference. But she had begun it; she had first suggested it. And now she calmly proposed turning him over to a valet. "Marjory," he said, "didn't I ask you to marry me?" She nodded. "That was necessary in order that we might be engaged," she reminded him. "Exactly," he agreed. "Now there seems to be only one way that we may keep right on being engaged." "I don't see that, Monte," she answered. "We may keep on being engaged as long as we please, may n't we?" "It seems not. That is, there is n't much sense in it if it won't let me go to Etois with you." "Of course you can't do that." "And yet," he said, "if we were married I could go, couldn't I?" "Why--er--yes," she faltered; "I suppose so." "Then," he said, "why don't we get married?" She did not turn away her head. She lifted her dark eyes to his. "Just what do you mean, Monte?" she demanded.