motes. He felt the steady throb of her pulse. She withdrew her hand as quickly as she had given it. It was as if she did not dare allow it to remain there. It was that which made him smile with a certain confidence of his own. "What we'd better do," he said, "is to get out of Paris. I'm afraid the pace here is too hot for us." "To Etois?" she asked. "That's as good a place as any. Could you start this afternoon?" "If you wish." "The idea is to move on as soon as you begin to think," he explained, with his old-time lightness. "Of course, the best way is to walk. If you can't walk--why, the next best thing--" He paused a moment to consider a new idea. It was odd that it had never occurred to him before. "I have it!" he continued. "We'll go to Etois by motor. It's a beautiful drive down there. I made the trip alone three years ago in a car I owned. We'll take our time, putting up at the little villages along the way. We'll let the sun soak into us. We'll get away from people. It's people who make you worry. I have a notion it will be good for us both. This Hamilton episode has left us a bit morbid. What we need is something to bring us back to normal." "I'd love it," she fell in eagerly. "We'll just play gypsy." "Right. Now, what you want to do is to throw into a dress-suitcase a few things, and we'll ship the trunks by rail to Nice. All you need is a toothbrush, a change of socks, and--" "There's Marie," she interrupted. "Can't we ship her by rail too?" "No, Monte," she answered, with a decided shake of her head. "But, hang it all, people don't go a-gypsying with French maids!" "Why not?" she demanded. She asked the question quite honestly. He had forgotten Marie utterly until this moment, and she seemed to join the party like an intruder. Always she would be upon the back seat. "Wouldn't you feel freer without her?" he asked.