"Sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain—and hurry."
Leaving Paris? She had no right to do that. Edhart never left. That was the beauty of Edhart—that he remained stationary, so that he could always be found. He was quite sure that Edhart was too considerate even to die, could he have avoided it. Now Marjory was proposing to go and leave him here alone. He could not allow that. It was too early to quit Paris, anyway. It was only the first day of spring!
She came down into the gloomy pension reception-room looking as if she had already begun to assist Marie with the packing. Her hair had become loosened, and escaped in several places in black curls that gave her a distinctly girlish appearance. There was more color, too, in her cheeks; but it was the flush of excitement rather than the honest red that colored his own cheeks. She looked tired and discouraged. She sank into a chair.
"It was good of you to come, Monte," she said. "But I don't know why I should bother you with my affairs. Only—he was so disagreeable. He frightened me, for a moment."
"What did he do?" demanded Monte.
"He came here early, and when Marie told him I was out he said he would wait until I came back. So he sat down—right here. Then, every five minutes, he called Madame Courcy and sent her up with a note. I was afraid of a scene, because madame spoke of sending for the gendarmes."
"Why didn't you let her?"
"That would have made still more of a scene."
She was speaking in a weary, emotionless voice, like one who is very tired.
"So I came down and saw him," she said. "He was very melodramatic."