Mary's one thought was to escape and hide herself from every one. She felt as fastidious women feel after a journey through miles of thick black dust, when they cannot bear to have their faces seen with the disfiguring stains of travel upon them. But she had to go back to the deck where people were dancing, before she could find her way to any hiding place; and even then she did not know how she should contrive to leave the yacht without answering questions and fighting objections.

She was thankful to find Captain Hannaford not dancing, and standing near the foot of the steps she had just descended. He was some one she knew, at least, some one whose calm manner made him seem dependable. Then, too, the physical affliction which repelled her, in making him appear remote from the world of fortunate men, almost attracted her at this moment. Standing there as if waiting for her, very quiet, apparently quite unemotional, he was like a lifeboat in a merciless sea. She snatched at the help he silently offered.

"I feel ill," she said, chokingly. "Do you think I could get away without any one noticing? I want to go home."

Instinctively she was sure that she might count upon him to serve her, that he would rather do so than stay and watch the dancing, for he himself did not dance.

"Come along," he said, with the calmness which was never ruffled. "People will think you're engaged to sit out this dance with me. Get your wraps, and I'll see that the launch is ready to take you across to the slip."

The ladies' dressing-room was below. One of the largest and finest of the staterooms had been set apart for that purpose; but there were so few cloaks that Mary had no difficulty in finding hers, half-dazed as she was. To her relief, Captain Hannaford was waiting for her not far from the door when she came out.

"I thought as you're seedy you mightn't be able to find the way alone," he said. "It's all right about the launch."

Five minutes later she was being carried toward the shore, the explosive throbbing of the engine sending stabs of pain through her temples. Beside her sat Hannaford; silent, his arms folded, his black bandaged face turned away from her. He had a habit, when he could, of seating himself so that the unscarred side of his head was in sight of the person next him; but to-night he had not done this with Mary. He knew that she would be blind not only to his defects, but to his existence, if he did not irritate her by trying to attract attention.

Neither spoke a word during the few moments of transit, and Mary gazed always toward land, as if she did not wish to see the great lighted yacht which illuminated the whole harbour. It had not occurred to her that she ought to say, "Don't trouble to come with me. I shall do very well alone." She took it for granted not only that he would come, but that he would be glad to come; and there was no conceit in this tacit assumption. It was borne in upon her mind from his, as if by an assurance.

When the motor launch had landed them upon the slip, and puffed fussily away again, Hannaford steadied Mary's steps with a hand on her arm. It was not until they were on the pavement, and facing up the hill that leads from the Condamine to higher Monte Carlo, that she spoke. "Oh, I ought to have left word for Lady Dauntrey!" she exclaimed.

"I thought of that," Hannaford quietly answered. "I wrote on a card that you had a headache and I was taking you home."

"Thank you," Mary said, mechanically. As soon as she had heard the words she forgot them, and let her thoughts rush back to the arena of their martyrdom. Hannaford took her hand and laid it on his arm. She allowed it to rest there, depending unconsciously on the support he gave. They did not speak again until they had reached the top of the hill, turned the corner, and arrived at the steps of the HÔtel de Paris.

Because Lady Dauntrey had chosen to make a late entrance on the scene, it was after midnight now, though Mary and Hannaford had come away comparatively early from the dance. The Casino was shut, but Christmas eve festivities were going on in the restaurant, as well as in the brilliantly lit Moorish CafÉ de Paris on the opposite side of the Place. Mary's longing for peace and quiet in "coming home" was jarred out of her mind by the gay music and lights, and sounds of distant laughter which seemed to have followed her mockingly from the yacht. But they brought her out of herself; and standing on the lowest step she thanked Hannaford for all that he had done.

"You know I've done nothing," he said. "I wish there were something I really could do for you. Isn't there? Wouldn't you like to have an English doctor prescribe for your headache? I know a splendid one. He'd cure you in an hour."

"I must try to cure myself," Mary said. "I shall be better soon. I must be! There's nothing more you can do, thank you very much. Unless——"

"Unless what?" He caught her up more quickly than he usually spoke.

"Now I've come back, I can hardly bear to go indoors after all. I feel as if I couldn't breathe in a warm room, with curtains over the windows. Would you take me on the terrace? I think I should like just to sit on one of the seats there for a few minutes; and afterward maybe I shall be more ready to go in."

"Come, then," was the brief answer that was somehow comforting to Mary. She began consciously to realize that this man's calm presence helped her. She was grateful, and at the same time smitten with remorse for the faint physical repulsion against him she had never until now quite lost. At this moment she believed that it was entirely gone, and could never return; but she felt that she ought to atone in some way because it had once existed. She took his arm again, of her own accord, and leaned on it with a touch that expressed what she dimly meant to express—confidence in him.

They went down the flight of steps at the end of the Casino, and so to the terrace, which was completely deserted, as Mary had hoped it would be. Here, away from the golden lights of hotel and cafÉ windows, the moon had full power, a round white moon that flooded the night with silver.

They turned to walk along the terrace-front of the Casino, facing toward Italy, and away from the harbour half girdled by the Rock of Hercules. They could not see the yacht, but the great illuminated shape rode in Mary's thoughts as it rode on the water. She knew that in coming back along this way she would have to see the harbour, and White Lady blazing with light, pulsing with music. Just yet she could not bear that, and when they came near the eastern end of the terrace she said that she would sit down on one of the seats.

The moonlight had seemed exquisite as an angel's blessing when she looked out between the flags and rose branches, drinking in the words "I love you," as a flower drinks in dew. Now the pale radiance on the mountains was to Mary's eyes wicked, wicked as a white witch fallen from her broomstick. All the world was wicked in its weary pallor; and the dark windows of far-off, moon-bleached villas were like staring eyeballs in gigantic skulls.

She had not meant to talk, but suddenly the fire within her flamed into words. "What have I done—what do I do—that could make people think I am—not good?—make them think they have a right to insult me?"

"Nobody has a right to think that," Hannaford answered, quietly as always. "If any man has insulted you, tell me, and I'll make him sorry."

"I—there is nothing to tell," she stammered, frightened back into reticence. "It's only—an idea that came into my head because of—something I can't explain. But, oh, do be honest with me, Captain Hannaford, if you are my friend, for I can never ask any one else, and I can never ask you again. It's just asking itself now, this question, for I want an answer so much. Is there anything very different about me, and the way I behave, from other girls or women—those who try to be good and nice, I mean?"

It was a strange appeal, and went to the man's heart. If Mary had puzzled him once, and if at first he had thought cynically of her, as he thought of most pretty women he met, love had washed away those thoughts many days ago: and in this moment when she turned to him for help he wondered how it was that he had ever been puzzled. He saw clearly now into the heart of the mystery, and it was a heart of pure rose and gold, like the heart of an altar fire.

"Wait a minute," he said, "before I answer that, and let me ask you a question. Did you ever hear the story or see the play of Galatea?"

"No. Not that I remember. What has it to do with me?"

"I'll tell you about her, and then maybe you'll see. The story is that a Greek sculptor made a beautiful statue which he worshipped so desperately that the gods turned it into a living girl. Well, you can imagine just how much that girl knew about life, can't you? She looked grown up, and was dressed like other young women of her day, but any kitten with its eyes open was better equipped for business than she, for kittens have claws and Galatea hadn't. Naturally she made some queer mistakes, and because a rather beastly world was slow to understand perfect innocence—the pre-serpentine innocence of Eve, so to speak—a lot of injustice was done to the poor little statue come alive. Some of the people wouldn't believe that she'd ever been a statue at all."

"I see!" exclaimed Mary, sharply. Then she was silent for a moment, thinking; but at last she put a sudden question: "What happened to Galatea?"

"Oh, the poor girl was so disgusted with the world that she went back to being a statue again eventually. I think myself it was rather weak of her, and that if she'd waited a bit she might have done better."

"I'm not sure," Mary said, slowly. "To-night I feel as if there was nothing better—than going back and being a statue."

"You won't feel like that to-morrow. The sun brings courage. I know—by experience. You think, Miss Grant, for some reason or other—I don't even want you to tell me what, unless it would do you good to tell—that you're down in the depths. But you're not. You never can be. Where you are it will always be light, really."

"What makes you believe I am good, if others don't believe it?" She turned on him with the question, the moon carving her features in marble purity, as if Galatea were already freezing again into the coldness of a statue. The whole effect of her, in the long white cloak with its hood pulled over the shining hair, was spiritual and unearthly. Hannaford would have given his life for her, happily, just then.

"I don't know what others believe," he said. "I have seen for a long time now, almost since the first, that you were a very innocent sort of girl enjoying yourself in a new way, and losing your head over it a little. Perhaps because I've been down in the depths we talked about, and look on life differently from what I did before, I may have clearer sight. I don't know what you did or were until you came here, but I've realized to-night all of a sudden that you are absolutely a child. There is no worldly knowledge in you. You're what I said. You're Galatea."

"You see this, without any telling," she cried. "And yet——" She bit her lip and kept back the words that would have rushed out, to shame her. But he knew with the unerring knowledge of one who loves, that she had nearly added: "And yet the one man who ought to understand me, does not. It is only you."

It was a bitter knowledge, but he faced it, hating the other man, who had hurt and did not deserve her. But he did not guess that the man was Prince Vanno Della Robbia. He had not heard Vanno almost commanding Mary to dance with him, and had not seen them go up on the bridge together. Hannaford was not even aware that they knew each other. The man in his mind was Dick Carleton, or possibly the Maharajah of Indorwana, whom some women found strangely attractive.

"I should like to be the one to make all others see—any fools or brutes who don't," he said.

"I don't want anybody made to see."

"Of course you don't. Well, there isn't one anywhere about worthy to think of you at all—not a man Jack of us—including me."

"And yet," Mary said, almost pitifully, "I have liked men to think about me! It's been so new, and interesting. What harm have men done me, that I should avoid them, just because they are men? Are they all so much worse than women, I wonder? Oughtn't we to be nice and sweet to them? It would seem so ungrateful to be cold, because they are so very, very kind to us. At least, that is what I felt till now—I mean till quite lately. Men interested me, because they seemed rather mysterious, so different from us; and I wanted to find out what they were really like, for I've been with women all my life. I wish now—that is, I hope I haven't behaved in ways to make people misunderstand?"

"Only fools, as I said before."

"But—what have I done to make the fools misunderstand? You must tell me!"

"Nothing serious. Only—well, you have gone about with a queer lot sometimes."

"Men or women?"

"Madame d'Ambre, for instance."

"Yes; but I haven't talked to her for a long time now."

"You've talked to others like her, and—worse."

"Would you have me be cruel? If some of the poor, pretty creatures here aren't quite what they ought to be, because they've been badly brought up or unfortunate, would you think it right and womanly not to answer when they speak, or to turn one's back on them, or slam the Casino door in their faces, as some cross-looking people do? Wouldn't that drive them to being worse?"

It was difficult to answer this question with due regard to the laws of God and man, and at the same time give Galatea a lesson in social decorum. "I suppose," he said slowly, "you'll just have to follow your star."

"I don't see any star now worth following. Oh, Captain Hannaford, I was so happy! It was such a beautiful, lovely world till to-night! Now I feel as if joy and luck were both gone."

"Does it comfort you a little to know that here's one man who'd do anything for you?" he asked. "There never was such a friend as I'll try to be, if you'll have me."

"Thank you," Mary answered. "I shall be very glad of your friendship. I shall feel and remember it wherever I go."

"Wherever you go? You mean——"

"Yes. I think I must go away—go on to Italy."

"If somebody has hurt you, don't go yet," Hannaford urged. "It would look as if—well, as if you felt too much. Don't you see?"

"I shouldn't like to give that impression," she said, almost primly. Then, with a change of tone, "But I can't—I won't stay at the hotel where I am. To-night at her house Lady Dauntrey invited me to come and stay there. I was asked before, to Christmas dinner. I could accept, I suppose?"

"Hm!" Hannaford grumbled, frowning. But he thought quickly, and it seemed to him that perhaps even Lady Dauntrey's chaperonage might be better than none. There was nothing against the woman, as far as he knew, except that she whitewashed her face and had strange eyes. The rich Mrs. Ernstein, who was staying at the Villa Bella Vista, was undoubtedly—even dully—respectable, if common. Neither was there any real harm in Miss Wardropp; and poor Dauntrey did not seem to be a bad fellow at heart.

"It's not ideal there, I'm afraid," Hannaford said at last, "but for lack of a better refuge it might do."

Mary felt suddenly as if some very little thing far down in herself was struggling blindly to escape, as a fly struggles to escape when a glass tumbler has been shut over it on a table. She drew in a long, deep breath.

"I'll leave the HÔtel de Paris to-morrow," she said, as if to settle the matter with herself once and for all. "And I'll go and stay at Lady Dauntrey's."

Almost unconsciously her eyes were fixed upon the old hill town of Roquebrune, asleep under the square height of its ruined castle, which the moon streaked with silver. All the little firefly lights of the village had died out except one, which still shone "like a good deed in a naughty world."

"It is perhaps the curÉ's light," Mary thought; and told herself that as he was a friend of the Prince, she would never dare to go and see him now.