quality that had frightened her. He had made love to her with his lips set as if love were some great responsibility. He had talked of duty and the joy of sacrifice until she had run away from him. That had been her privilege. That had been her right. She had been under no obligation to him then; she was under no obligation to him now. Her life was hers, to do with as she saw fit. He had no business to intrude himself, at this of all times, upon her. Not daring to look in the mirror again, she called Marie to adjust her hat and veil. "It is half past ten, Marie," she announced nervously. "I--I think Monsieur Covington must be waiting for us." "Yes, mademoiselle." Her ears caught at the word. "Marie." "Yes, mademoiselle." "I wish--even after this--to have you always address me as mademoiselle." "But that--" "It is my wish." It was a blue-and-gold morning, with the city looking as if it had received a scrubbing during the night. So too did Monte, who was waiting below for her. Clean-shaven and ruddy, in a dark-gray morning coat and top hat, he looked very handsome, even with his crippled arm. And quite like a bridegroom! For a moment he made her wish she had taken Marie's advice about her hair. She was in a brown traveling suit with a piquant hat that made her look quite Parisienne--though her low tan shoes, tied with big silk bows at her trim ankles, were distinctly American. Monte was smiling. "You are n't afraid?" he asked. "Of what, Monte?" "I don't know. We 're on our way." She took a long look at his steady blue eyes. They braced her like wine.