"You mean we ought to go back to the day before yesterday?" he asked. "In our thoughts," she answered. "And forget that we are--" She nodded quickly, not allowing him to finish. "Because," she explained, "I think it must be that which is making you serious. I don't know you that way. It is n't you. I 've seen you all these years, wandering around wherever your fancy took you--care-free and smiling. I've always envied you, and now--I thought you were just going to keep right on, only taking me with you. Is n't that what we planned?" "Yes," he nodded. "We started yesterday." "I shall never forget that part of yesterday," she said. "It was n't so bad, except for Hamilton." "It was n't so bad even with Hamilton," she corrected. "I don't think I can ever be afraid of him again." "Then it was n't he that bothered you last night?" he asked quickly. "No," she answered. "It--it was n't I?" She laughed uneasily. "No, Monte; because you were just yourself yesterday." He wondered about that. He wondered, if he placed before her all the facts, including the hours after he left her, if she would have said that. Here was his second opportunity to tell her what he had planned. If he did not intend to go on, he should speak now. To-morrow it would be too late. By noon it would be too late. By the time they finished their breakfast, it would be too late. He met her eyes. They were steady as planets. They were honest and clear and clean and confident. They trusted him, and he knew it. He took a deep breath and leaned forward. Impulsively she leaned across the table and placed her hand upon his. "Dear old Monte," she breathed. It was too late--now! He saw her in a sort of mist of dancing golden motes. He felt the steady throb of her pulse.