"Suppose I order young Hamilton to leave Paris?" he asked.

"But what right have you to order him to leave Paris?"

"Well, I can tell him he is annoying you and that I won't stand for it," he declared.

For a second her eyes grew mellow; for a second a more natural red flushed her cheeks.

"If you were only my big brother, now," she breathed.

Monte saw the point. His own cheeks turned a red to match hers.

"You mean he'll ask--what business you are of mine?"

"Yes."

And Monte would have no answer. He realized that. As a friend he had, of course, certain rights; but they were distinctly limited. It was, for instance, no business of his whether she went to etois or j.a.pan or India. By no stretch of the imagination could he make it his business--though it affected his whole schedule, though it affected her whole life. As a friend he would be justified, perhaps, in throwing young Hamilton out of the door if he happened to be around when the man was actually annoying her; but there was no way in which he could guard her against such annoyances in the future. He had no authority that extended beyond the moment; nor was it possible for Marjory herself to give him that authority. Young Hamilton, if he chose, could harry her around the world, and it would be none of Monte's business.

There was something wrong with a situation of that sort. If he had only been born her brother or father, or even a first cousin, then it might be possible to do something, because, if necessary, he could remain always at hand. He wondered vaguely if there were not some law that would make him a first cousin. He was on the point of suggesting it when a bell jangled solemnly in the hall.

The girl clutched his arm.

"I'm afraid he's come again," she gasped.

Monte threw back his shoulders.

"Fine," he smiled. "It could n't be better."

"But I don't want to see him! I won't see him!"

"There is n't the slightest need in the world of it," he nodded. "You go upstairs, and I'll see him."

But, clinging to his arm, she drew him into the hall and toward the stairs. The bell rang again--impatiently.

"Come," she insisted.

He tried to calm her.

"Steady! Steady! I promise you I won't make a scene."

"But he will. Oh, you don't know him. I won't have it. Do you hear?

I won't have it."

To Madame Courcy, who appeared, she whispered:--

"Tell him I refuse to see him again. Tell him you will call the gendarmes."

"It seems so foolish to call in those fellows when the whole thing might be settled quietly right now," pleaded Monte.

He turned eagerly toward the door.

"If you don't come away, Monte," she said quietly, "I won't ever send for you again."

Reluctantly he followed her up the stairs as the bell jangled harshly, wildly.

CHAPTER IV

A PROPOSAL

Dejectedly, Monte seated himself upon a trunk in the midst of a scene of fluffy chaos. Marie had swooped in from the next room, seized one armful, and returned in consternation as her mistress stood poised at the threshold. Then, with her face white, Marjory closed the door and locked it.

"He's down there," she informed Monte.

Monte glanced at his watch.

"It's quarter of twelve," he announced. "I'll give him until twelve to leave."

Marjory crossed to the window and stared out at the sun-lighted street.

It was very beautiful out there--very warm and gentle and peaceful.

And at her back all this turmoil. Once again the unspoken cry that sprang to her lips was just this:--

"It is n't fair--it is n't fair!"

For ten years she had surrendered herself to Aunt Kitty--surrendered utterly the deep, budding years of her young womanhood. To the last minute she had paid her obligations in full. Then, at the moment she had been about to spread her long-folded wings and soar into the sunshine, this other complication had come. When the lawyer informed her of the fortune that was hers, she had caught her breath. It spelled freedom. Yet she asked for so little--for neither luxuries nor vanities; for just the privilege of leading for a s.p.a.ce her own life, undisturbed by any responsibility.

Selfish? Yes. But she had a right to be selfish for a little. She had answered that question when Peter Noyes--Monte reminded her in many ways of Peter--had come down to her farm in Littlefield one Sunday.

She had seen more of Peter than of any other man, and knew him to be honest. He had been very gentle with her, and very considerate; but she knew what was in his heart, so she had put the question to herself then and there. If she chose to follow the road to which he silently beckoned--the road to all those wonderful hopes that had surged in upon her at eighteen--she had only to nod. If she had let herself go, she could have loved Peter. Then--she drew back at so surrendering herself. It meant a new set of self-sacrifices. It meant, however hallowed, a new prison. Because, if she loved, she would love hard.

Monte glanced at his watch again.

"Five minutes gone! Have you seen him leave?"

"No, Monte," she answered.

He folded his arms resignedly.

"You don't really mean to act against my wishes, Monte?"

"If that's the only way of getting rid of him," he answered coolly.

"But don't you see--don't you understand that you will only make a scandal of it?" she said.

"What do you mean?"

"If he makes a scene it will be in the papers, and then--oh, well, they will ask by what right--"