y," he assured her. "It will be France first."

"You will be in danger!" She did not put that as a question. It was an
assertion out of her solemn acceptance of his task. But that he did not
seem to hear.

"When are you coming to France?" he asked her.

Electra had now no more doubt of the unspoken pact between them than if
it had been sealed by all the most blessed vows. It would have cheapened
it rather if he had delegated her to the classified courts of sympathy.
Instead, it left them a universe to breathe in. It pointed to
undiscovered cities beyond the marge of time. It made her his in a way
transcending mutual promises. This same full belief rose passionately to
assert itself, and perhaps to soothe that small sharp ache in her heart,
the kind that rises in woman when man, though he takes the cup, yet
offers none in turn.

"Immediately," she answered, without question. "Or, when you tell me to
come."

"Will you write to me there?" He scribbled a street and number on a
blank card and gave it to her. "I shall not get word from you for a
month, at least. Perhaps not until the late autumn. But I shall get it.
And if I don't answer, you will know I shall answer by coming--when I
can."

Even that seemed enough. It was evident that until he came she would be
upholding something for him, keeping the faith. It was beautiful in a
still, noble way, one that left her indescribably uplifted. Her eyes
were wet when he looked at her. Seen thus, Electra was a fine creature,
her severity of outline softened into womanly charm. It seemed
unnecessary to claim from him any high assurance of what he had for her
to do, yet she did say, for the pleasure of saying it,--

"You are going to let me help you?"

"What else is there for either of us to do," he said quickly, "but to
help everybody?"

The blood rushed swiftly to her face and showed her in a glow. She
leaned toward him in a timid and what seemed to her, for a moment, an
ignoble confidence, because it touched such sordid things.

"I have some money. I will give that--and anything I have. You must
teach me. I have everything to learn."

He seemed to promise that, as he seemed to promise other things, partly
by his answering smile, partly by the inexplicable current of persuasion
pouring from him. He rose.

"Now," he said, "I must go. It is nearly noon."

"You won't stay to luncheon?"

"Won't the others be here?"

"My grandmother and Mr. Stark."

She was hardly