"How?" demanded Monte.
"She married you."
"Yes," answered Monte, "that's true. I say, old man—it's getting a bit cool here. Perhaps we'd better go in."
Monte had planned for them a drive to Cannes the day Beatrice sent word to Marjory that she would be unable to go.
"But you two will go, won't you?" she concluded her note. "Peter will be terribly disappointed if you don't."
So they went, leaving at ten o'clock. At ten-fifteen Beatrice came downstairs, and ran into Monte just as he was about to start his walk.
"You're feeling better?" he asked politely.
She shook her head.
"I—I'm afraid I told a fib."
"You mean you stayed because you did n't want to go."