MARIE woke in the morning with a bad headache. She would have liked to stay in bed, but not for the world would she have allowed Mrs. Heriot the satisfaction of her absence.

Since her accident she had always had breakfast in her room, but she dressed early this morning and went downstairs before the first gong had sounded.

She had carefully bathed the tear stains from her eyes and powdered her face; she had put on her prettiest frock and taken great pains with her hair. Tender-hearted and loyal as she was, Marie was tremendously proud, and she made up her mind that, if the effort killed her, she would not allow Mrs. Heriot to imagine that the incident of last night had made any difference or hurt her in any way.

She went in to breakfast before Chris arrived, and he looked at her in blank astonishment when he sauntered up to the table.

"Down to breakfast! Couldn't you sleep, Marie?"

The words were playful, but they hurt his wife inexpressibly, for they showed that he had not been to her room, as he generally did, to see how she was.

She answered him with a little smile.

"Yes; I'm tired of being an invalid. I've thrown the last bottle of medicine away." She forced herself to eat a good breakfast, though she was not in the least hungry, and smiled her sweetest at Mrs. Heriot, who came in very late.

81 Mrs. Heriot's eyes narrowed a little as she returned Marie's greeting, and a soon as the meal was ended she followed the girl into the lounge and sat down beside her.

"Dear Mrs. Lawless, how nice to see you up early again! I do hope it means that you are stronger!"

"I think I'm quite well," Marie answered. "And I think it's time I looked after my husband a little. Poor Chris! I am afraid he has been very dull."

She was not afraid of anything of the sort. She knew only too well that Chris had not missed her in the least, but it gave her a little throb of satisfaction to see the faint look of annoyance that crossed Mrs. Heriot's face, as she leaned back in her chair and twisted the long gold chain with its bunch of dangling charms which she wore round her neck. Was this chit of a girl going to attempt to cross swords with her?

Chris came into the lounge at the moment.

"Well, what's the programme for to-day?" he asked, cheerily. He was quite at his ease; he believed that last night's foolishness had been swept into the rag bag of the past and forgotten; he did not know enough about women to suspect Mrs. Heriot of malice, or Marie of capability to deceive him.

It was Mrs. Heriot who answered.

"Personally, I'm too worn out to do anything but lounge about," she said. "And you . . . you look awfully tired yourself, Chris."

Marie raised her eyes.

"Well, he had rather a nasty adventure last night, didn't he?" she said quietly. "What a fortunate thing for you both that he could swim, wasn't it, Mrs. Heriot?"

She spoke quite simply and naturally and with just the right shade of concern in her voice, but her heart was racing at her own daring.

Chris turned scarlet to the roots of his hair, and for a moment there was an embarrassed silence.

Then Mrs. Heriot said with a little uncertain laugh: "So he told you! How brave of him! I advised him not to, you know. I thought 82 after your own dreadful accident it would only unnerve you again."

Marie laughed.

"I thought it was a most exciting adventure." she said. "But it would have been horrid if you had had to stay out there all night, wouldn't it?" She rose with a little yawn, as if the subject no longer interested her, and walked over to the open doorway which led into the garden.

Chris stood irresolute; he knew that Mrs. Heriot's eyes were upon him, and he was furious because his crimson flush would not die down. Mrs. Heriot laughed softly.

"So you told her then," she said.

Chris turned on his heel without answering, and followed his wife into the garden; there were some children playing ball in the sunshine and Marie was standing watching them with unseeing eyes.

She knew she had scored, but she felt no triumph—only a dull sort of misery at having humiliated the man she loved.

"Marie!" She turned round, the mask of indifference falling once more upon her face.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Who told you about last night?"

She shook her head. "Nobody."

But he persisted. "Did Feathers tell you?"

"Feathers!" she echoed, with quiet scorn. "Do you think that I should discuss you with him?"

"Somebody must have told you," he said doggedly.

Her brown eyes met his sorrowfully.

"You ought to have told me," she said.

The color rushed again to his handsome face.

"I know. I was a fool. I don't know why I went out with her. I hate the woman. . ." He really thought he did at the moment. "But you had gone off with Feathers, and it was rottenly dull alone."

She interrupted very gently.

"I thought you would prefer to be left alone; you could have come had you chosen."

83 "I know, but . . . oh, dash it all, there isn't any excuse for me, I know, and you behaved like a brick just now, Marie—letting her think that you didn't care."

There was an eloquent silence; then Marie said: "I only let her think what was the truth! I don't care at all! You are quite free to do as you like. We agreed that, didn't we? But I think, for your own sake, it would be better to tell me next time anything like that happens. I hate Mrs. Heriot to think that you have a secret with her and from me—it looks bad, Chris."

He gave an angry exclamation.

"Secret! It was no secret! You exaggerate when you say that."

"Do I? Well, I'm sorry." She turned to move away, but he followed.

"I hope you'll forgive me?" he asked with humility new to him.

Poor little Marie Celeste! The tears swam traitorously into her eyes, and she bit her lip.

"There isn't anything to forgive," she said. "I think, perhaps, we have both rather exaggerated things."

They walked along the sea front together, Chris silent and morose, with a little frown between his eyes.

Only once before had Marie made him feel ashamed, and that was years and years ago when he had pushed her out of the loft, and she had taken the blame and declared that she had fallen through her own carelessness.

Chris hated to feel ashamed, and after a moment he broke out again violently.

"I should have told you myself, only Mrs. Heriot did not wish it. She said that people in the hotel would talk, and that she could not face the scandal. So what could I do?"

Marie looked at him in utter amazement. Was he as ignorant of women as all this? But she did not say what was in her mind—that she believed Mrs. Heriot would welcome notoriety of any sort.

"We won't talk about it any more," she said, hopelessly. "After 84 all, you've got a perfect right to choose your own friends."

"Mrs. Heriot is not a friend. I play golf with her and bridge—that is all. I never make friends of women."

She did not contradict him, and they walked on a little way without speaking; then Marie said suddenly:

"Chris, don't you think we could go home at the end of the week?"

"Go home!" he echoed sharply. "You mean—to Aunt Madge?"

"Yes; I think I'm rather tired of the sea."

"We'll go to-morrow if you like; I shan't be sorry to leave the place myself."

He would have gone that morning in order to escape meeting Mrs. Heriot again. He was more angry with himself than he was with her, for it was slowly dawning upon him that he had allowed himself to be made a fool of, and the feeling was unpleasant.

"I think it will do if we go at the end of the week," Marie said quietly. "I will write to Aunt Madge, so that she will be ready for us."

Chris frowned.

"We can't live with Aunt Madge indefinitely," he said at last. "We shall have to get a place of our own some-where."

"I know, but for the present she would like to have us." There was a note of anxiety in Marie's voice. Just now there was nothing she dreaded more than the thought of living somewhere alone with Chris.

Once it had seemed the height of bliss.

"There'll be plenty of money, fortunately," Chris went on. "We ought to manage to have quite a good time between us, don't you think?"

"Yes, I think so."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic," he complained. "I suppose you're still thinking about that rotten business last night."

She did not deny it.

"Supposing it had been me," she said, after a moment "Supposing I 85 had gone out there with—with Mr. Dakers, for instance; and the same thing had happened. What would you have thought?"

Chris laughed unaffectedly.

"With old Feathers! Good Lord, you'd have been safe enough with him!"

Her face quivered. Would there never be anything she could do or say that would move him in the slightest?

"Perhaps that's how I felt about you and Mrs. Heriot," she said sharply.

Chris laughed again.

"Well, I never thought you'd be jealous of her, certainly," he said.

She turned on him with flashing eyes.

"I'm not jealous of her! How dare you say such a thing!"

"My dear girl"—Chris was utterly amazed—"isn't that what I've just said—that I didn't think you were jealous of her? What a little spitfire you are!"

She had never looked at him like that before, and he was rather interested to discover that she had got it in her to flare out.

"What would you like to do to-day?" he asked presently. "We don't seem to have gone about much, though we've been here nearly three weeks."

"I'm quite happy as I am, and it's rather hot to go sight-seeing, isn't it?" Her voice sounded weary.

Chris looked at her sharply.

"You're not feeling so well as you'd like me to believe," he said suspiciously.

Marie frowned.

"If only you wouldn't persist in making me an invalid," she complained.

Chris was offended.

"Oh, very well! It was only for your own good." His face changed a little. "Here comes Feathers," he added.

He had not seen his friend that morning, and he was not sure what sort of a reception he was going to receive, but Feathers behaved as if nothing had happened. He remarked that it was a lovely 86 morning and that the sea was warmer than it had been for a month.

"Have you been in?" Chris asked eagerly.

"Yes—just come out."

Chris looked at the sea.

"I wouldn't mind a dip," he said sententiously.

"I should have it then," Marie said. "I can stay with Mr. Dakers if he has nothing better to do."

Chris looked at his friend.

"Will you look after her?" he asked, dubiously.

"Delighted."

"Right—oh! I shan't be long." Chris turned away.

Feathers found an empty seat in the shade, and he and Marie sat down.

"And we are quite-well-thank-you to-day, I suppose, eh?" he asked smilingly. "I heard you were down to breakfast, though I did not see you."

"Yes—I'm tired of being lazy. Did Mrs. Heriot tell you?"

"I believe she did."

Marie smiled.

"Mrs. Heriot is very angry with me," she said.

"Why, on earth?"

"Because of last night."

"Last night!" He looked away from her guiltily.

"Yes—about Mrs. Heriot and Chris going out to that fishing boat, I mean." Her eyes wandered out to sea, to where a group of small craft bobbed at anchor in the sunlight.

"Oh! Chris told you, of course." Feathers sounded infinitely relieved.

Marie shook her head.

"No—I heard you quarrelling with him; my room is next to his, you know! I suppose I ought not to have listened, but . . . well, I did! It's quite true that listeners never hear anything pleasant, isn't it? That's the second time I've had it happen to me."

Feathers tilted his hat over his eyes, and the rest of his ugly face looked rather grim.

"I am sorry you overheard," he said constrainedly. "I did get up in 87 the pulpit a bit, I know! And there was no harm in what had happened, really."

She did not speak, and he repeated firmly:

"There was no harm in it at all, Mrs. Lawless."

Marie raised her eyes and laughed with a little hysterical catch in her voice.

"Oh, surely you're not one of those people who think I am jealous of Mrs. Heriot?" she asked.

"Good Lord, no!" He sat up with sudden energy. "Jealous! Of that woman!"

Marie gave a long sigh.

"She thinks I ought to be," she said drearily. "I wonder if she is right?"

Feathers looked angry.

"Of course not. What rubbish! Chris doesn't care for women—I know for a fact that he's never cared for a woman in his life."

She nodded; his words were truer than he thought, she told herself, seeing that Chris did not even care for her.

"We're going back to London on Saturday," she said, abruptly changing the subject.

"Really? That sounds as if you were rather glad."

"So I am—very glad. I hate this place and everybody in it!" Her voice, which had risen passionately, broke off, and she turned her eyes to his face. "No, that is not true," she said impulsively. "I don't hate you—the only reason I am sorry to be going is because it will mean leaving you."

She spoke with unaffected sincerity, and without realizing what her words might imply, but Feathers' big hands were suddenly clenched into fists, and there was a curiously strained look about his eyes as he stared down at the asphalt path.

"You are very kind," he said, formally.

"No, it is you who have been kind," she answered. "I don't know what I should have done without you—" She spread her hands and laughed. "Yes, I do know; I should have been drowned."

"I wish you would try and forget all about that."

"I do try, but I can't! Sometimes I dream about it, and I wake up 88 crying and struggling, just as if it had all happened again. . . ." She shivered sensitively, drawing a long breath.

"Then Chris should have taken you away from the sea long ago," Feathers said decidedly.

"He doesn't know . . ."

"Not know!" Feathers echoed blankly.

"No . . ." she rushed on, painfully conscious of what he was thinking. "But we're going on Friday, and then I hope I shall forget all about it; I think I am sure to, when we are back in London."

"Where are you going to stay?"

"With my aunt; you know her, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, very well."

But his voice sounded absent, as if his thoughts were far away.

"You will come and see us, won't you?" Marie asked anxiously. "You will come and stay with us when you are back in town, won't you?"

He looked up with a faint smile.

"It is kind of you to ask me, but I am not very good company, you know—I am not an amusing chap like Chris."

She did not answer, though she could truthfully have said that he had done more to pass the dreary hours of the last three weeks than ever Chris had attempted to do.

"I heard from young Atkins this morning," Feathers said presently. "He asked very anxiously after you; he is a nice boy."

"Yes, I liked him; he has written to me once or twice."

"Really! What does Chris say to that?"

If the question was asked deliberately it was entirely successful, for Marie gave a scornful little laugh as she answered: "Oh, he doesn't know," and once again Feathers echoed her words blankly.

"Doesn't know, Mrs. Lawless!"

"No! Oh, I hope you are not one of those old-fashioned people who think husband and wife should have no secrets from one another," she broke out with shrill nervousness. "Chris and I are going to be 89 entirely modern—we agreed that from the first; each to go our own way, and no questions asked."

There was a profound silence, then Feathers said rather painfully:

"That is different from what you told me that morning on the sands, and again after your accident—you said you were sure that you could never be a modern wife, that your friend had told you you ought to have lived in early Victorian days."

Marie gave a little sigh.

"You have a good memory," she said hopelessly. "But I suppose we can all change our minds if we wish!"

"There is no law against it certainly, but it seems a pity to change it, and not for the better."

"You don't like the modern woman?"

"I despise her," said Feathers vehemently. "Look at the women in this hotel! They think of nothing but clothes and amusement and flirtations—there is not one I would cross the room to look at."

"Present company always excepted, I hope," said Marie with a little whimsical smile.

"I don't class you with that sort of woman at all," Feathers said stolidly.

"Thank you, Mr. Dakers."

He moved restlessly, almost as if the conversation bored him, and Marie rose with nervous haste.

"I'm afraid I've been talking a lot of nonsense," she said apologetically. "I wonder if Chris is out of the sea yet."

They walked to the railings and looked down on to the sands.

"Shall you stay here long?" she asked, suddenly. "After we have gone, I mean."

"I don't know; I haven't made any plans; I'm one of those people who drift with the tide, and if a wave casts me up on the shore, as it did when I came here, I just stay until another one comes along and washes me off again."

She looked up at him interestedly.

90 "I have so often wondered why you came here." she said suddenly. "You don't like the hotel, or the people, or even the place very much, do you?"

"I came here to see you."

"To see me!"

"Yes—I wanted to see what sort of a woman Chris had married."

"And were you very disappointed?" She asked her question with wistful anxiety, very sure that if he answered it at all it would be with the truth.

"Yes, I was disappointed—but agreeably!" he said, smiling. "I somehow imagined you would be empty-headed and golden-haired— perhaps a little older than Chris. I am afraid I thought you would be the type of woman that Mrs. Heriot is."

"That is not much of a compliment to him."

"Perhaps not, but that is what I thought."

"Are you always as candid as this to everyone, Mr. Dakers?"

"I am told so—that is partly why I am so unpopular; that and another reason."

"What other reason?"

He smiled grimly, looking down at her.

"My ugly face," he said.

She gave an indignant cry of protest. "Oh, you are not ugly! I will not allow you to say such a thing."

And she wondered why she had ever thought him ugly when they first met, and then again, why she no longer thought so.

"The morning I pulled you out of the water," Feathers said unemotionally, his eyes fixed on the sea, "a woman in the crowd made a remark which I shall always remember. What do you think it was?"

"How can I guess?"

"She said 'Beauty and the Beast.'" Feathers laughed. "I suppose I did look rather like an old man of the sea—wet clothes are not becoming—to anyone," he added, with an amused memory of the object Chris had looked in his saturated dress suit.

91 "It was a horrible thing to have said!" Marie cried hotly. "She must have been a detestable woman."

"Oh, I don't know—I think I rather liked it."

"Did you? How queer! Why?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Because I am a queer sort of chap, I suppose. I remember a woman once telling me that I wore the ugliest clothes she had ever seen." He glanced down at his baggy tweed suit. "Do you know that pleased me more than it would have done had she told me I was the smartest man in London."

Marie laughed.

"In the story of 'Beauty and the Beast,'" she said, "the Beast turned out to be a Fairy Prince, you know."

Feathers moved away from the railings and stood looking down the crowded promenade.

"That is a feat beyond me, I am afraid," he said, quietly. "Shall we go on? Chris will be coming directly."

They met him almost at once, and turned back to the hotel together.

"Had a topping bath," Chris said breezily. He looked very fresh and sunburnt, and his hair had crinkled up into little waves with the salt water. As a rule he kept it smooth with brilliantine.

"What have you two been doing?" he asked, looking at his wife.

"Talking! I have been telling Mr. Dakers that we are going back to London on Friday."

"Yes, Marie's had enough of this place and so have I," Chris said. "Why not come along with us and stay for a bit. Feathers?"

Feathers was lighting a cigarette, which perhaps was why he did not answer immediately.

"Afraid I can't just now, thanks all the same," he said rather curtly. "Later on, if you'll ask me again, I shall be delisted."

"Always glad to see you," Chris said. He had quite forgotten the little upset of last night; unpleasantnesses passed over his head 92 very quickly, perhaps because real trouble had never knocked at his door.

"I tell Marie we shall have to look about for a house," he went on. "Or perhaps a flat would be better, as it's not such a tie, and I like going away for week-ends."

"You'll have to stay at home now you're a married man, old son," said Feathers chaffingly, though his eyes were serious. "I thought all Benedicts buried the latchkey before they went to church."

Chris laughed shortly.

"You thought wrong then; we're not like ordinary humdrum married people, are we, Marie Celeste?" he asked, rather maliciously, with sudden bitter memory of the kiss she had refused him last night.

She shook her head.

"No, indeed, we are not, and I hope you haven't buried the latchkey, because I shall want one, too," she added with an effort.

Chris laughed and looked triumphantly at his friend.

"How's that for an up-to-date wife, my boy?" he asked.

"And a bachelor husband," Marie added deliberately.

"I should have thought the old way would have been good enough," Feathers said bluntly. "Excuse me, there's a man I want to speak to." He struck off across the hotel grounds and left them.

Chris looked at his wife and laughed.

"Queer old stick, isn't he?" he asked.

"He's been very kind to me," Marie answered.

"He's kind to everybody," Chris agreed. "I hope I shall not lose sight of him just because I am married."

"Why should you?"

"Because he's a confirmed bachelor, and he thought I was; he was furious with me for getting married."

"Was he?"

"Yes, we always knocked about together, you see, and I suppose he thinks everything will be different now."

"It need not be," said Marie.

"No, that's what I tell him," Chris agreed, eagerly. "I told him 93 you were not an exacting woman; I told him that we had known one another all our lives."

There was a little silence.

"Did you tell him why you married me?" Marie asked.

Chris flushed.

"What do you mean? Is it likely?"

"I thought you might, as—as it was only just a sort of business arrangement."

Chris stood still and looked down at her.

"Do you know that you have altered a great deal lately, Marie Celeste?" he said.

She forced herself to look at him.

"Do you mean my face?"

He frowned. "Your face—no! I mean in yourself! I was only thinking this morning that you seem absolutely different to—to the girl you were that day outside Westminster Abbey?"

She turned sharply away.

"Perhaps I am; a great deal has happened since then."

Chris seemed to be considering the point.

"Years ago," he said suddenly, "I used to flatter myself that you were rather fond of me, Marie Celeste."

She caught her breath, but made no answer, and he persisted, "You were, weren't you?"

"Yes—of course I was!" she said desperately.

"Even up to that last time you went back to Paris I thought the same," he went on. "You had a funny little way of looking at me, Marie Celeste—a way I rather liked, I remember."

"And that made you think I was desperately in love with you?" she asked, in a hard voice.

"Well, not desperately in love, perhaps, but I used to think you had a sort of sneaking affection for me—I was a conceited donkey, I suppose."

"I married you—anyway!" she said breathlessly.

"Yes, and what a marriage," he ejaculated.

Marie put her hand to her throat as if she were choking.

"I thought we were getting along well together."

94 "Did you? That all depends what you mean by well! I suppose it's all right, if it suits you."

She gave a queer little laugh.

"Chris, you are not trying to pretend that you're in love with me!" The words seemed forced from her and her heart beat to suffocation as she waited for his reply.

It came without a second's hesitation.

"I suppose I've never been in love with any woman, but if there ever has been anyone it's been you, Marie Celeste."

A poor little grain of comfort, and yet it was comfort to know that nobody else came before her.

She felt almost happy for the rest of the day; even Feathers noticed that her eyes were brighter and that there was more color in her cheeks.

"This place is doing you good at last, Mrs. Lawless," he said to her during the evening. "It's the first time I've seen you with a color."

She put up her hands to her cheeks, laughingly.

"And it's my own," she said, "and not out of the box."

His grave eyes searched her face.

"Ignoramus as I am, I could have told you that," he answered.

Mrs. Heriot came rustling up to them; she wore a beautiful evening gown, cut rather unnecessarily low, and a diamond star glittered on her white neck.

"What are you two laughing about?" she demanded. "Mr. Dakers, I must compliment you. You always seem to be able to make Mrs. Lawless laugh, and she's such a serious little person as a rule."

She sat down between them; she always liked to be the center of a conversation.

"There'll be no moon to-night," she said suddenly. "It's clouded over; I think we shall have some rain."

"It must be badly needed," Feathers said sententiously.

She made a little grimace.

"The crops and the farmers want it, I suppose you mean! Do you know that I've no interest in either of them?"

95 "You surprise me," said Feathers gravely.

She held out her white hand.

"Give me a cigarette, Mr. Dakers!" She glanced round the lounge.

"Where is everyone to-night?" she asked plaintively.

"I think most of the men are in the billiard room," Marie said hesitatingly; she knew that Chris was—he had asked her permission first, and the little attention had pleased her, though she knew quite well that he would have gone, anyway, had he desired to go.

"I think Mr. Dakers is simply splendid, you know," Mrs. Heriot said with enthusiasm, when presently he had walked away. "He makes such a wonderful friend, doesn't he?"

"He is very kind," Marie agreed frigidly.

"How you will miss him!" the elder woman went on sympathetically. "Or is he going back to town with you?"

"No, he is not going back with us," Marie said.

Her eyes went across the lounge, to where Feathers stood talking to some people, and her heart contracted with a sudden fear.

Yes, she would miss him, she knew! She was afraid to think how much.

96