"I--I don't know," she faltered. "He guessed a little, and then I had to tell him the rest."

Monte's mouth hardened.

"That should n't have been left for you to do. I should have told him myself."

"Now that it's all over--can't we forget it, Monte, with all the rest?"

He bent a little toward her.

"Have you forgotten all the rest?" he demanded.

"At least, I 'm trying," she gasped.

"I wonder if you have found it as hard as I even to try?"

Steady--she must hold herself steady. His words were afire. With her eyes on the ground, she felt his eyes searching her face.

"Whether it is hard or not makes no difference," she answered.

"It's just that which makes all the difference in the world," he contradicted. "I wanted to be honest with myself and with you. So I went away, willing to forget if that were the honest way. But, from the moment I took the train here at Nice, I've done nothing but remember. I've remembered every single minute of the time since I met you in Paris. The present has been made up of nothing but the past.

Pa.s.sing hours were nothing but echoes of past hours.

"I've remembered everything--even things away back that I thought I had forgotten. I dug up even those glimpses I had had of you at Chic's house when you were only a school-girl. And I did n't do it on purpose, Marjory. I 'd have been glad not to do it, because at the time it hurt to remember them. I thought I'd given you over to Peter.

I thought he was going to take you away from me. So I 'd have been glad enough to forget, if it had been possible."

She sprang to her feet.

"What are you saying, Monte?" she trembled.

With his head erect and his eyes shining, he was telling her what her heart hungered to hear. That was what he was doing. Only she must not listen.

"I'm telling you that to forget was not possible," he repeated hotly; "I'm telling you that I shall never try again. I've come back to get you and keep you this time."

He held out his arms to her. She shrank back.

"You're making it so hard," she quavered.

"Come to me," he said gently. "That's the easy way. I love you, Marjory. Don't you understand? I love you with all my heart and soul, and I want you to begin life with me now in earnest. Come, little woman."

He reached her hands and tried to draw her toward him. She resisted with all her strength.

"You must n't," she gasped. "You must n't!"

"It's you who're making it hard now, wife o' mine," he whispered.

Yes, she was making it hard. But she must make it still harder. He had come back to her because she was alone, moved temporarily by a feeling of sentimental responsibility. That was all. He was sincere enough for the moment, but she must not confuse this with any deeper pa.s.sion. He had made a mistake in returning to the Normandie.

Doubtless he had felt lonesome there. It was only natural that he should exaggerate that, for the time being, into something more.

Then Peter's two letters had come. If Peter had not told him anything that he should n't, he had probably told him a great deal more than he should. Monte, big-hearted and good, had, as a consequence of all these things, imagined himself in love. This delusion might last a week or two; and then, when he came to himself again, the rude awakening would follow. He would see her then merely as a trifler.

Worse than that, he might see himself as merely a trifler. That would be deadly.

"It's you who are making it hard now," he repeated.

She had succeeded in freeing herself, leaving him before her as amazed and hurt as a spurned child.

"You're forcing me to run away from you--to run away as I did from the others," she said.

He staggered before the blow.

"Not that!" he cried hoa.r.s.ely.

"I'm going home," she ran on. "I'm going back to my little farm, where I started."

"You're running away--from me?"

"I must go right off."

She looked around as if for Marie. It was as if she were about to start that second.

"Where is Marie?" she asked dully.

She made for the door.

"Marjory," he called after her. "Don't do that!"

"I must go--right off," she said again.

"Wife o' mine," he cried, "there is no need of that."

"Marie!" she called as she reached the door. "Marie!"

Frantically she ran up the stairs.

CHAPTER XXVII

WAR

War!

A summer sky, warm and fragrant, suddenly became dour and overcast.

Within a day thunder rolled and lightning flashed. Men glanced up in startled surprise, then clenched their jaws. Women who were laughing gayly turned suddenly white. Orders were speeded over the wires and through the clouds to the remotest hamlets of France. In a few hours men began to gather in uniform, bearing rifles. They posted themselves about the gates of stations. They increased in numbers until they were everywhere. Trumpets sounded, drums rolled. Excited groups gathered in the hotels and rushed off to the consulates. The very air was tense and vibrant.

War!

People ma.s.sed in groups. The individual no longer counted.