He nodded.

"He takes life mighty seriously."

"Too seriously, Monte," she returned.

"It's what made him blind; and yet--there 's something worth while about a man who gets into the game that way. Hanged if he did n't leave me feeling uncomfortable."

She looked worried.

"How, Monte?"

"Oh, as though I ought to be doing something instead of just kicking around the Continent. Do you know I had a notion of studying law at one time?"

"But there was no need of it, was there?"

"Not in one way. Only, I suppose I could have made myself useful somewhere, even if I did n't have to earn a living. Maybe there's a use for every one--somewhere."

He had left her side, and was staring out the window toward the ocean.

She watched him anxiously. She had never seen him like this, and yet, in a way, this was the same Monte in whose eyes she had caught a glimpse of the wonderful bright light. It was the man who had leaned toward her as they walked on the sh.o.r.e the night before they reached Nice--a gallant prince of the fairy-books, ready to step into real life and be a gallant prince there.

Monte had never had a chance. Had he been left as Peter Noyes had been left, dependent upon himself, he would have done all that Peter had done, without losing his smile. Marjory must not allow him to lose that now. His mouth was drooping with such exaggerated melancholy that she felt something must be done at once. She began to laugh. He turned quickly.

"You look as if you had lost your last friend," she chided him. "If talking with Peter Noyes does that to you, I don't think you had better talk with him any more."

"He's worth more to-day, blind, than I with my two eyes."

"The trouble with Peter is that he can't smile," she answered. "After all, it would be a sad world if no one were left to smile."

The words brought back to him the phrase she had used at the Normandie: "I am depending on you to keep me normal."

Here was something right at hand for him to do, and a man's job at that. He had wanted a chance to play the game, and here it was.

Perhaps the game was not so big as some,--it concerned only her and him,--but there was a certain added challenge in playing the little game hard. Besides, the importance of the game was a good deal in the point of view. If, for him, it was big, that was enough.

As he stood before her now, the demand upon him for all his nerve was enough to satisfy any man. To a.s.sume before her the pose of the carefree chump that she needed to balance her own nervous fears--to do this with every muscle in him straining toward her, with the beauty of her making him dizzy, with hot words leaping for expression to his dry lips, those facts, after all, made the game seem not so small.

"Where are you going to lunch to-day?" he asked.

"I don't know, Monte," she answered indifferently. "I told Peter he could come over at ten."

"I see. Want to lunch with him?"

"I don't want to lunch with any one."

"He'll probably expect you. I was going to look at some villas to-day; but I suppose that's all off."

Her cheeks turned scarlet.

"Yes."

"Then I guess I'll walk to Monte Carlo and lunch there. How about dinner?"

"If they see us together--"

"Ask them to come along too. You can tell them I'm an old friend. I am that, am I not?"

"One of the oldest and best," she answered earnestly.

"Then I'll call you up when I come back. Good luck."

With a nod and a smile, he left her.

From the window she watched him out of sight. He did not turn. There was no reason in the world why she should have expected him to turn.

He had a pleasant day before him. He would amuse himself at the Casino, enjoy a good luncheon, smoke a cigarette in the sunshine, and call her up at his leisure when he returned. Except for the light obligation of ascertaining her wishes concerning dinner, it was the routine he had followed for ten years. It had kept him satisfied, kept him content. Doubtless, if he were left undisturbed, it would keep him satisfied and content for another decade. He would always be able to walk away from her without turning back.

CHAPTER XVIII

PETER

Beatrice brought Peter at ten, and, in spite of the mute appeal of Marjory's eyes, stole off on tiptoe and left her alone with him.

"Has Trix gone?" demanded Peter.

"Yes."

"She shouldn't have done that," he complained.

Marjory made him comfortable in the chair Monte had lately occupied, finding a cushion for his head.

"Please don't do those things," he objected. "You make me feel as if I were wearing a sign begging for pity."

"How can any one help pitying you, when they see you like this, Peter?"

she asked gently.

"What right have they to do it?" he demanded.

"Right?"

She frowned at that word. So many things in her life seemed to have been decided without respect for right.

"I'm the only one to say whether I shall be pitied or not," he declared. "I've lost the use of my eyes temporarily by my own fault.

I don't like it; but I refuse to be pitied."

Marjory was surprised to find him so aggressive. It was not what she expected after listening to Beatrice. It changed her whole att.i.tude toward him instantly from one of guarded condolence to honest admiration. There was no whine here. He was blaming no one--neither himself nor her. It was with a wave of deep and sincere sympathy, springing spontaneously from within herself, that she spoke.

"Peter," she said, "I won't pity you any more. But if I 'm sorry for you--awfully sorry--you won't mind that?"