He leaned over and kissed the cold, almost colourless cheek; her

little mechanical smile came back. Then they remembered the chauffeur

behind them and Brandes reddened. He was unaccustomed to a man on the

rumble.

"Could I talk to mother on the telephone when we get to New York?" she

asked presently, still painfully flushed.

"Yes, darling, of course."

"I just want to hear her voice," murmured Rue.

"Certainly. We can send her a wireless, too, when we're at sea."

That interested her. She enquired curiously in regard to wireless

telegraphy and other matters concerning ocean steamers.

* * * * * In Albany her first wave of loneliness came over her in the stuffy

dining-room of the big, pretentious hotel, when she found herself

seated at a small table alone with this man whom she seemed, somehow

or other, to have married.

As she did not appear inclined to eat, Brandes began to search the

card for something to tempt her. And, glancing up presently, saw tears

glimmering in her eyes.

For a moment he remained dumb as though stunned by some sudden and

terrible accusation--for a moment only. Then, in an unsteady voice: "Rue, darling. You must not feel lonely and frightened. I'll do

anything in the world for you. Don't you know it?"

She nodded.

"I tell you," he said in that even, concentrated voice of his which

scarcely moved his narrow lips, "I'm just crazy about you. You're my

own little wife. You're all I care about. If I can't make you happy

somebody ought to shoot me."

She tried to smile; her full lips trembled; a single tear, brimming,

fell on the cloth.

"I--don't mean to be silly.... But--Brookhollow seems--ended--forever...."

"It's only forty miles," he said with heavy joviality. "Shall we turn

around and go back?"

She glanced up at him with an odd expression, as though she hoped he

meant it; then her little mechanical smile returned, and she dried her

eyes naïvely.

"I don't know why I cannot seem to get used to being married," she

said. "I never thought that getting married would make me

so--so--lonely."

"Let's talk about art," he suggested. "You're crazy about art and

you're going to Paris. Isn't that fine."

"Oh, yes----"

"Sure, it's fine. That's where art grows. Artville is Paris' other

name. It's all there, Rue--the Loove, the palaces, the Latin Quarter,

the statues, the churches, and all like that."

"What is the Louvre like?" she asked, tremulously, determined to be

brave.

As he had seen the Louvre only from the outside, his imaginary

description was cautious, general, and brief.

After a silence, Rue asked whether he thought that their suitcases

were quite safe.

"Certainly," he smiled. "I checked them."

"And you're sure they are safe?"

"Of course, darling. What worries you?"

And, as she hesitated, he remembered that she had forgotten to put

something into her suitcase and that the chauffeur had driven her back

to the house to get it while he himself went into the Gayfield House

to telephone Stull.




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