"Will I? You shall see."
So far her enthusiasm was genuine enough. But the philosophy begotten of a poulet Duchanel might easily account for such optimism. Indeed to-night Markham himself was disposed to see all things the color of roses. The small voice of his conscience still protested faintly at the unconventional character of their fellowship and reminded him that, whatever her indifference to consequences, his obligation to protect her from her own imprudences became the more urgent. But there was a charm in the situation which quite surpassed anything in his experience. She was a child to-night—nothing more—and the zouave jacket and short skirt quite obliterated the memory of that young lady of fashion who had presided a short time ago at the head of the long dinner-table at "Wake Robin." If there was any doubt in her mind as to the propriety of what she had done—of what she planned to do, or any doubt as to his own share in the arrangement, her gay mood gave no sign of it, and the frankness of her friendship for him left nothing to be desired. What did it matter, after all, so long as they were happy—so long as no one learned the secret.
His brow clouded and she read his thought.
"You're worried about me."
He nodded.
"The sooner we're far away from the high road between Paris and
Trouville, the better I'll be pleased."
She smiled down at her costume.
"No one will possibly know me in this. That's why I got it."
"Don't be too sure. There are people—" he paused, his thoughts flying, curiously enough, to Olga Tcherny, "people who wouldn't understand," he finished. She laughed.
"I don't doubt it. It's quite possible I wouldn't understand myself. We're never quite so impressed with our own virtues as when we can find flaws in other people. But you know I'm not courting discovery."