Not daring to look in the mirror again, she called Marie to adjust her hat and veil.
"It is half past ten, Marie," she announced nervously. "I—I think Monsieur Covington must be waiting for us."
"Yes, mademoiselle."
Her ears caught at the word.
"Marie."
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"I wish—even after this—to have you always address me as mademoiselle."
"But that—"
"It is my wish."
It was a blue-and-gold morning, with the city looking as if it had received a scrubbing during the night. So too did Monte, who was waiting below for her. Clean-shaven and ruddy, in a dark-gray morning coat and top hat, he looked very handsome, even with his crippled arm. And quite like a bridegroom! For a moment he made her wish she had taken Marie's advice about her hair. She was in a brown traveling suit with a piquant hat that made her look quite Parisienne—though her low tan shoes, tied with big silk bows at her trim ankles, were distinctly American.