While two men thought violently of Marise Sorel, she lay in bed as night wore on, intent upon thinking of one of them, and inadvertently thinking of both.

Severance hadn't shown himself at the theatre because, thanks to Garth, he was not looking his best. Neither was Garth, who, on the contrary, looked and felt his worst. Unlike Severance, however, he had very little personal vanity; and a black eye or so would not have prevented him from going as usual to gaze at "Dolores." He did not go because he didn't wish to go.

Smoking pipe after pipe, he prowled up and down his own sitting-room far into the night, much to the annoyance of a lady on the floor below. He mapped out a future full of revenges; and if "thoughts were things," his must have hurled themselves like Mills bombs into Marise's room, to burst at the foot of her bed. He did not flatter himself that they would reach so far; yet possibly it was some disturbing telepathic influence which forced Marise to think of Garth as often as of Severance, almost as often as she thought of herself.

She thought with fury of Severance, with extraordinary curiosity of Garth, and with pitying forgiveness of herself.

Of course, she knew that she was behaving, or planning possibly to behave, in a way which should bow her head with shame. Perhaps she was a little ashamed. At all events, she wouldn't have liked people to know what she contemplated doing, and with what motive. They might misunderstand. They might think her a bad lot, whereas she was not a bad lot, but a charming, cruelly-wounded girl who had to defend herself at almost any price.

Well, she wasn't claiming to be an angel! She'd hate to be one. It would be too dull. But she was just as far from being a "Vamp," or even a sort of up-to-date Becky Sharp. Becky Sharp had no heart. She, Marise, had too much. That was the trouble. She was hurt, hurt through and through! She'd go mad if she didn't do something desperate.

To marry this Garth man—actually marry him!—would be desperate enough. She'd said that she'd do it. She had—yes, actually proposed to him. But she could change her mind. Surely he wouldn't be surprised if she did. And if he were surprised it didn't matter, except that—he was such a strange sort of fellow, he might kill her! It was rather a wonder he hadn't killed Tony—or tried to. She would somehow have fancied he was that sort! But she must have been mistaken in him. Mums said that Tony'd said (through the 'phone) that Garth had accepted the promise of a million dollars for—for being what she'd herself invited him to be: her "dummy" husband.

What was his motive? Was it what she had actually believed: that he loved her so wildly he'd do anything to get her? Or was Tony right; had every man his price in hard cash?

Marise sat up in bed. She couldn't lie still!

"By Jove, I wouldn't do such a thing if I were a man!" she nobly felt. "Not if I loved a girl. I wouldn't have her on such terms. Which is it with Garth?"

There it was again! She couldn't banish him from her thoughts. His big image blocked out that of Severance. But then, she wasn't curious concerning Severance. She knew all about his motives.

"I won't do the beastly thing!" she said out aloud, or almost aloud. If it had been quite, it might have brought Mums flying helpfully in from the next room, and Marise didn't want Mums at this moment. "I didn't mean it really, even at first."

Then she reminded herself that it wouldn't kill her if people did think that Lord Severance had jilted her. She needn't marry out of pique because of a nine days' wonder like that. She had had plenty of proposals (though nothing quite so exciting as Tony, perhaps), and she was bound to have plenty more. Some millionaire would come along—someone she could bring herself to tolerate as a real husband, and so break Tony's heart, as he deserved. Till one worth taking appeared, she would remain free.

As for the title—well, Mums had always cared more about that than she had, though, of course, it would be nice to marry an earl—especially such a unique sort of earl as Tony Severance.

As Mums said, "Tony was unique." He was so fearfully, frightfully good-looking. Such lots of girls wanted him. They had all envied her. If she lost him, they wouldn't envy her any more. They'd pity her. Ugh! They'd say, "Poor Marise Sorel thought she'd got him, but he slipped away and married his rich cousin."

This brought her down to bed-rock again. Should she carry out the Plan, and make Tony hers in the end—which he vowed was very near?

There were quite a lot of earls; but none like Tony. She'd had, and would have, other chances. But not to touch Tony. There wasn't anything to touch Tony! And with all that money he'd talked about, he'd be a multi-millionaire. The whole world would be hers as his wife. Yet—there was "many a slip 'twixt cup and lip." Just supposing—oh well, she wouldn't think of it any more. It was maddening, agonising. She'd go to sleep and decide—actually decide—in the morning!

Marise flung herself down desperately, and burying her hot head in the cool pillows, she forced herself not to think.

When she waked, it was with the sensation that something hateful had happened or was going to happen.

What was it? Oh!...

The girl remembered the horrid thing, and how she had decided to keep free and punish Tony. Or had she quite decided? Hadn't she put off deciding?

How dull as lead it would be to give up this tremendous adventure to which she'd impulsively pledged—almost pledged!—herself! It might be a shocking and repulsive thing to do if some people did it, but it wouldn't, of course, be so with her.

Lots of people had said that "Dolores" was a coarse, unpleasant part when Elsa Fortescue had played it, but no one had said such a word when she had taken it over. On the contrary!

As this thought passed through her badly aching head, Marise dimly realised that marriage with Major Garth—accepting him as a dummy husband, having to fight him, perhaps; "seeing what he would do," whether he would try the old Claude Melnotte or Petruchio stuff, or whether he'd work up new business of his own—would be quite the most exacting emotional part for which she'd ever been cast.

Suddenly she saw how she could punish Tony severely, even though she fell in with his plans; how she could have that satisfaction, and at the same time the satisfaction of not losing him.

"It's like having your cake and eating it too!" she thought.

She would marry Garth. She'd marry him soon—much sooner than Tony meant—as soon as a license could be got. She'd send for Garth and tell him so. She'd say she knew no more about marriage licenses than dog licenses. That sounded rather smart! He must find out and arrange everything. The quicker the better. Tony shouldn't hear a thing about it till too late. Then he would be sick! And in this way he would seem to be the jilted one. Splendid! His trip to England would be torture. And she'd make it a little worse by flirting with Garth under his nose before he sailed!

It was scarcely light when she settled all this. Then she could hardly wait till it was time to get up.

Strange! To many people this would be a day like any other! To CÉline, to ZÉlie Marks—ah, ZÉlie Marks!

The eyes of Marise flashed like blue stars in the dawn.