Marise and Garth neatly arranged their life according to stateroom etiquette on shipboard. When one was in the bedroom the other was in the sitting-room next door. They were like the figures of the man and woman who come out and go in at the adjacent doors of a barometer; and the plan, though inconvenient, was not unworkable. When the girl had opened the jewel-cases and gazed once more at the glories she had thought lost forever to her repentant eyes, she couldn't resist tapping on the wall with a gold-backed hair-brush—one Garth had given her. Indeed, she did not stop to think better of the impulse.

Her heart—or some distantly related muscles round the organ—had suddenly warmed towards the man. This thaw was doubtless produced by remorse. For she had believed, on no evidence save instinct, that he had given these lovely things—her wedding presents, although discarded!—to ZÉlie Marks. Instead, he must have expressed them to Mrs. Mooney in order that she—Marise—should have a chance to change her mind. Foxy of him, because it would be difficult to refuse the gifts again, coming as they did from the innocent hands of Mothereen! However, she would see. She'd have a talk with Garth, and then decide.

Garth was in the sitting-room, pretending to himself that he was interested in the evening paper. He jumped up at the sound of a tap on the wall, hardly believing his own ears. But a knock at Marise's door brought a "Come in!" which did not sound grudging.

Marise in a so-called robe de chambre was more dressed than in "Dolores's" third act ball-gown at the theatre, yet there was such a bizarre touch of intimacy in being admitted to this bedroom scene on the stage of life that numerous volts of electricity seemed to shoot through Garth's nerves. His face was composed, however, even stolid. "You wanted me?" he asked.

Marise didn't directly answer that question. She pointed to the jewel-cases. "Mrs.—Mooney put these here," she said. "I—wanted to tell you I'm glad they weren't stolen or—anything."

Her words gave him time to swallow his surprise, which was quite as great as her own had been at sight of the jewels. But he guessed at once what had happened. What a trump ZÉlie was! A grand girl! She'd make a fine wife for someone. He'd been a clumsy ass to force these things upon her in a moment of fury against Marise; and ZÉlie had done exactly right. He was immensely grateful. Some day he must find a way to repay her for silently handing him a big chance—a chance that might mean a lot, which but for her thought, her generosity, he would have missed.

Well, it was up to him not to miss it now! He'd been an idiot over these baubles once. He mustn't "fall down" over them again; and to let Marise guess how he'd bungled—how a girl she didn't appreciate yet had straightened matters out—would be to prove himself a priceless ass.

"Thank you for saying that," he quietly replied.

"I did tell you once before that I was sorry I'd thrown the jewel-cases on the floor. It was horrid of me. I felt afterwards I'd been most ill-bred," vouchsafed Marise.

"No. More like a bad-tempered child," said Garth.

"You weren't nice to me when I tried to apologise," the girl went on.

"Were you trying to apologise? Sorry! I didn't understand."

"What did you think I was trying to do?"

"Did you ever see a small boy take a stick, and stir up some beast in its cage at a Zoo? If you did, you'll know."

Marise laughed. "What sort of a beast?"

"Any sort with a sore head."

"Well—to change the subject," she said rather hastily, "let's talk not about beasts, but about jewels. I've apologised. And now officially I put these valuable things into your hands."

"I'd rather leave them in yours," said Garth.

"But—I told you before I really couldn't keep them—in the circumstances."

"Haven't the circumstances changed—just a little?"

"I—don't quite see how you mean."

"Don't you? In that case, I suppose they haven't. Won't you change, then—enough to keep the things, as I've no use for them?"

"I'm afraid I can't. You may have a use for them some day, you know."

"What use? I don't seem to see Mothereen in pearls and laurel wreaths."

The picture called up made them both smile. "No, but you won't—won't be bound to me for ever," Marise explained, her cheeks growing pink. "There'll be some other girl; a girl that perhaps you haven't even met, yet——"

"Never on God's earth will there be a girl for me, that I haven't met."

Remembrance of a girl he had met darted through the mind of Marise. ZÉlie Marks! Was the same thought in his mind? she wondered.

"Who can tell about these things?" she murmured vaguely. "Anyhow, you must please take charge of your jewels now."

"But you said this morning you wouldn't like to hurt Mothereen's feelings."

"What have her feelings to do with the jewels?"

"Just this. She's been keeping them for the great day—the day of our coming. She knows they were my wedding present to you——"

"Then she knows that you were shockingly extravagant."

"Perhaps she doesn't think so. She's better acquainted with my circumstances than you are. Anyhow, she's looking forward to seeing you all dolled up in the things to-night, and it'll be a blow for her if you're not. She won't say a word to you. Only she's sure to ask me——"

"Oh, all right! I'll wear the lot!" snapped Marise. She spoke rather crossly, but Garth was not dashed. He was, indeed, happier than he had been since his wedding day. His dummy hand might have scored a success once or twice before during the strange fortnight they had passed together, yet a world apart. He wasn't certain. But he was certain of this: it was a small triumph. He had a "hunch" that, when the girl had once seen herself in the pearls, the pendant, and the wreath of emerald laurel leaves, she wouldn't be anxious to give them up.

"That's very good of you," he thanked her formally. "I'm obliged to you for Mothereen's sake as well as—but no matter for the rest. It's nothing to you, of course."

As he spoke, Garth walked to the door without waiting for a hint from Marise. "You'll want to go on dressing," he said, "so as to leave the place clear for me." Then, without another word, he went out and shut the door.

Marise stared at herself in the mirror. "You might have two noses—or none—for all the notice he took of your looks," she told her reflection.

History repeated itself that evening. The guests were all hero-worshippers, as the crowd had been at the station. The bride was admired. No one could help admiring her. Face, figure, hair, clothes, and jewels were all wonderful. But even those who seemed to admire her most blatantly betrayed their opinion that she was a lucky girl to have got Jack Garth—she, only an actress!

Some of the people had come a long distance to welcome home the V.C. from the great war, and among these were a young couple who interested Marise, because they appeared so frankly in love with each other. What their last name was, she didn't learn. Mothereen must have thought that she had heard of them from Garth. "Here are Billy and Cath," she introduced them, adding, "This is our dear Marise."

Billy was in the Army, and had fought in France when America "went in." He was stationed somewhere—Marise didn't know where—and Cath had been a "war bride." She looked delicate, though pretty; and another girl whispered to Marise, "Cath was never strong, but when Billy was reported missing a year ago she went right down, and the doctors thought she'd got T.B. My, you don't know what T.B. means? Everyone out here knows only too well, because the climate in these parts and Arizona is so good, lots of 'em come to get cured. Consumption, of course. But joy's the best medicine in the world. You can realise how it would be with you if it had been your gorgeous Jack! I guess Cath will get well now, though she isn't quite right yet—and I don't suppose Billy'd have let her take such a trip for anyone but Jack Garth."

They had motored from "home," wherever that was, in what they called a "tin Lizzie," and Billy had driven the car himself. When everyone else was gone, Cath was still in the house, for there was trouble with "Lizzie," and Garth had gone out with his friend to see what it was.

Cath looked very tired, but her eyes were bright, and a pink flush high on her rather thin cheeks melted into shadows under thick dark lashes. She talked excitedly to Marise about "Jack and Bill," telling the stranger anecdotes which would have thrilled a loving bride, but now and then she glanced wistfully at the door.

At last the two men came back, and the girl half sprang up. "I was getting worried!" she cried. "Is Lizzie going to behave herself?"

"That's what I wish I was sure of," said Billy. "The little brute is in the sulks, and not even Jack can get at the reason, so it must be pretty deep-seated. Still, she may bump us home if I coax her along."

"Good gracious, boy!" exclaimed Mothereen. "That'll never do for Cath! Why, you might be stuck for hours. You and she must stay here and we'll lend you what you need."

"Oh, thank you, darling!" Cath answered. "That would be wonderful. I am tired. But are you sure you've room to squeeze us in, now you've got Jack and his wife with you?"

Mothereen started. "My saints!" she gasped. "I'd forgotten we'd made a suite for them. But that doesn't matter a bit. There'll be room. And you'll stop."

Billy and Cath protested. They wouldn't upset the house for worlds. It wasn't so late but Bill could go into the town and knock up the folks at a hotel.

"Nothing of the sort," Mothereen scolded. "We'll have a cot bed put into my room—mine's too narrow for two; and sure I am that Marise won't mind my having a bunk fixed up for the night in her sitting-room."

Fortunately Cath and Bill were both talking too fast at the same time to notice the expression of the bride's face, and Mothereen was looking at them. With all her wish not to hurt Mothereen, the line had to be drawn somewhere. Marise, trying to control her face, glanced at Garth. Her eyes said, "This is up to you. You've got to save me. Think of something, quick!"

"Of course, nobody'll hear of your turning out, Mothereen!" Garth flung himself into the breach. "I expect Marise will invite Cath in to chum with her. Then Bill and I will shift for ourselves. We——"

But an outcry from Cath, Bill, and Mothereen cut his words in two. None of them would hear of such a thing. Part a honeymoon pair like that? Never! It would be a crime.

"Why shouldn't Cath and I have that sitting-room if Mrs. Garth can spare it?" asked Bill.

"We-ell," Mothereen temporised, and glanced with a smile at Marise. "What do you say, darling?"

It was a terrific moment for the girl. It was worse than not knowing your part on the first night of a new play. Again her eyes turned to Garth. But this time he was caught unprepared. He missed his cue, and looked agonised. Marise believed that he was thinking of Mothereen more than of her. Still, she was sorry for the man. She just couldn't "let him down" before his adored one and his friends. Besides, she had never quite forgotten the ring of his voice on the night after the wedding when he had bidden her trust him. In his strange way—such as it was—he had never failed her since. No, she wouldn't let him down!

"What do I say?" she answered Mothereen. "I say 'Yes,' of course. I'm—delighted! Can't we all help to make up their beds, and bring in washstands and things?"

They all did help. And everyone lent Cath and Bill something—"for luck." Garth contributed pyjamas for his friend. Mothereen kept a supply of new toothbrushes of all sizes and qualities. Cath squeaked with joy over the "nighty" Marise offered.

Then at last came the moment for bidding each other "sleep well!—sweet dreams!" The door of Cath and Bill's bedroom shut. Mothereen followed Marise into her quarters adjoining, kissed and complimented her, and called Garth, who was looking at a picture of himself in his first British uniform, enlarged to enormous size in crayon, framed in gilt and hung up in the hall.

"Marise has sent her maid to bed," Mothereen explained. "She was tired after the journey—a train headache. I thought I could undo this lovely wreath for her, but I can't. Will you try?"

Garth tried. He'd never touched the girl's hair before. Its ripples were so soft—so soft! He had not known that a woman's hair could feel so divine as that. For an instant he was afraid that a certain unsteadiness of his fingers would make him awkward. But he almost prayed that it might not, and the prayer—if it was a prayer—had its answer. He happened to be particularly deft. The emerald laurel wreath yielded its secret to him, and without disturbing one of those wonderful golden waves, he laid the glittering thing on the table.

"Well, I'll say good night, then, me dear ones," said Mothereen. "It's made me as happy as a bird, sure it has, to see your happiness. The Lord is good to us all, He who brought Johnny back, safe and sound, out o' the Furnace. His blessin' on ye both this night!"

Then she was gone.

Her words had brought a sense of peace into the room, as if a white dove had flown in.