. At a little shop where they
stopped to buy mountain sticks she must purchase postcards and send them
at once. Stewart was fairly patient: air and exercise were having their
effect.

It was eleven o'clock when, having crossed the valley, they commenced to
mount the slope of the Sonnwendstein. The climb was easy; the road wound
back and forward on itself so that one ascended with hardly an effort.
Stewart gave Marie a hand here and there, and even paused to let her
sit on a boulder and rest. The snow was not heavy; he showed her the
footprints of a party that had gone ahead, and to amuse her tried
to count the number of people. When he found it was five he grew
thoughtful. There were five in Anita's party. Thanks to Marie's delays
they met the Americans coming down. The meeting was a short one: the
party went on down, gayly talking. Marie and Stewart climbed silently.
Marie's day was spoiled; Stewart had promised to dine at the hotel.

Even the view at the tourist house did not restore Marie's fallen
spirits. What were the Vienna plain and the Styrian Alps to her, with
this impatient and frowning man beside her consulting his watch and
computing the time until he might see the American again? What was
prayer, if this were its answer?

They descended rapidly, Stewart always in the lead and setting a pace
that Marie struggled in vain to meet. To her tentative and breathless
remarks he made brief answer, and only once in all that time did he
volunteer a remark. They had reached the Hotel Erzherzog in the valley.
The hotel was still closed, and Marie, panting, sat down on an edge of
the terrace.

"We have been very foolish," he said.

"Why?"

"Being seen together like that."

"But why? Could you not walk with any woman?"

"It's not that," said Stewart hastily. "I suppose once does not matter.
But we can't be seen together all the time."

Marie turned white. The time had gone by when an incident of the sort
could have been met with scorn or with threats; things had changed
for Marie Jedlicka since the day Peter had refused to introduce her to
Harmony. Then it had been vanity; now it was life itself.

"What you mean," she said with pale lips, "is that we must not be seen
together at all. Must I--do you wish me to remain a prisoner while
you--" she choked.

"For Heaven's sake," he broke out brutally, "don't make a scene. There
are men cutting ice over there. Of course you are not a prisoner. You
may go where you