"It is you," she exclaimed, as if Marjory sought to deny the fact. "Peter—Peter, it's Marjory Stockton!"
Peter stepped forward, his hand outstretched hesitatingly, as one who cannot see. Marjory took the hand, staring with questioning eyes at Beatrice.
"He worked too hard," explained the latter. "This is the price he paid."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Peter!" she cried.
He tried to smile.
"It's at moments like this I mind it," he answered. "I—I thought you were in Paris, Marjory."
"I came here to-day."
She spoke nervously.
"Then," he asked, "you—you are to be here a little while?"
Marjory passed her hand over her forehead.