erself by a desk, where she had a full view of the
office--of all who came in and all who went out. That she was here
doing this and that Monte Covington was upstairs wounded by a pistol
shot was confusing, considering the fact that as short a time ago as
yesterday evening she had not been conscious of the existence in Paris
of either this hotel or of Monsieur Covington. Of the man who, on the
other hand, had been disturbing her a great deal--this Teddy
Hamilton--she thought not at all. It was as if he had ceased to exist.
She did not even associate him, at this moment, with her presence here.
She was here solely because of Monte.

He had stood by the window in Madame Courcy's dingy reception room,
smiling--his hair all awry. She recalled many other details now: how
his arm had hung limp; how he had been to a good deal of awkward
trouble to keep his left arm always toward her; how white he had been
when he passed her on his way out; how he had seemed to stumble when he
stepped into the cab.

She must have been a fool not to understand that something was wrong
with him--the more so because only a few minutes before that he had
stood before her with his cheeks a deep red, his body firm, his eyes
clear and bright.

That was when he had asked her to marry him. Monte Covington had asked
her to marry him, and she had consented. With her chin in her hand,
she thought that over. He had asked her in order that it might be his
privilege to go downstairs and rid her of Teddy. It had been suggested
in a moment, and she had consented in a moment. So, technically, she
was at this moment engaged. The man upstairs was her fiance. That
gave her the right to be here. It was as if this had all been arranged
beforehand to this very end.

It was this feature of her strange position that interested her. She
had been more startled, more excited, when Monte proposed, than she was
at this moment. It had taken away her breath at first; but now she was
able to look at it quite coolly. He did not love her, he said. Good
old Monte--honest and four-square. Of course he did not love her. Why
should he? He was leading his life, with all the wide world to wander
over, free to do this or to do that; utterly without care; utterly
without responsibility.

It was this that had always appealed to her in him ever since she had
first known him. It was this that had made her envious of him. It was
exactly as she would have done in hi