Monte's opportunity. Taking Marjory's arm, he started for the
door.

But Hamilton was madder than he had ever been. He ran forward,
laughing hysterically.

"Kiss the bride," he called.

This he actually attempted. Monte had only his left arm, and it was
not his strongest; but back of it he felt a new power. He took
Hamilton beneath the chin, and with a lurch the man fell sprawling over
a table among the glasses. In the screaming confusion that followed,
Monte fought his way to the door, using his shoulders and a straight
arm to clear a path. In another second he had lifted Marjory into a
cab.

Leaning forward, she clutched his arm as the cab jumped ahead.

"I'm sorry I had to make a scene," he apologized. "I should n't have
hit him, but--I saw red for a second."

She would never forget that picture of Monte standing by her side, his
head erect, his arm drawn back for the second blow which had proved
unnecessary. All the other faces surrounding her had faded into a
smoky background. She had been conscious of him alone, and of his
great strength. She had felt that moment as if his strength had
literally been hers also. She could have struck out, had it been
necessary.

"You did n't hurt your shoulder, did you?" she asked anxiously.

He did not know--it did not much matter. Had Hamilton actually
succeeded in reaching her lips, he would have torn his wounded arm from
the bandages and struck with that too. He had never realized until
then what sacred things her lips were. He had known them only as
beautiful. They were beautiful now as he looked down at them.
Slightly parted, they held his eyes with a strange, new fascination.
They were alive, those lips. They were warm and pulsating. He found
himself breathing faster because of them. He seemed, against his will,
to be bending toward them. Then, with a wrench, he tore himself free
from the spell, not daring to look at her again.

Leaving her to Marie at the door of her room, Monte went into his own
apartment. He threw open a window, and stood there in the dark with
the cool night breeze blowing in upon him. After Maxim's, the more
clean air the better; after what had followed in the cab, the more cool
air the better.

He was still confused by it; still frightened by it. For a moment he
had felt himself caught in the clutch of some power over which he had
no control. That was the startling truth that stood out most
prominently. He had been