She was too weak to protest. She was glad enough to sit down and give herself up utterly to Marie.
"Only we must not keep him waiting too long," she said. "Monsieur Covington does not like to be kept waiting."
"It is he?" exclaimed Marie.
"It—it is quite a surprise." She blushed. "I—I do not understand why he is here."
"It should not be difficult to understand," ventured Marie.
To that madame made no reply. It was clear enough what Marie meant. It was a natural enough mistake. To her, Monsieur Covington was still the husband of madame. She had stood in the little chapel in Paris when madame was married. When one was married, one was married; and that was all there was to it for all time. So, doubtless, Marie reasoned. It was the simple peasant way—the old, honest, woman way.
Madame folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes while Marie did her hair and adjusted the ribbon. Then Marie slipped a white gown over her head.
"There," concluded the maid, with satisfaction, as she fastened the last hook. "Madame looks as young as when she was married."
But the color that made her look young vanished the moment Marjory started down the stairs alone to meet him. Several times she paused to catch her breath; several times she was upon the point of turning back. Then she saw him coming up to meet her. She felt her hand in his.
"Jove!" he was saying, "but it's good to see you again."