"Yes, Monte," she submitted.
"I'll run back to the Roses, and meet you here in a half-hour. Will you be ready?"
"Yes. Marie will come with us, of course."
He shook his head.
"She must wait here until she can get to Paris. Find out if she has any cash."
"I want her to come with me," she pleaded.
"I doubt if she will want to come. Anyway, our fifty-five dollars won't stretch to her. We—we can't afford a maid."
She flushed at his use of "we." Nevertheless, what he said was true enough. That sum was a mere pittance. Fate had her in a tight grip.
"Be sure to bring your passport," he reminded her. "It is ten-thirty. I 'll be here at eleven."
Hurrying back to his room, he took what he could crowd into his pockets: his safety razor and toothbrush, a few handkerchiefs and a change of socks. One did not need much on the open road. He carried his sweater—the old crimson sweater with the black "H"—more for her than for himself. The rest of his things he threw into his trunk and left in the care of the hotel.