Marjory did not have time to count a full hundred heart-beats before she heard a light rap at the door. For the fraction of a second she swayed in the fear that, taking the stairs three at a time, Monte might have ventured to her very room. But it would be with no such gentle tap that he would announce himself.
"A card for madame," came the voice of the garçon.
Her knees still weak, she crossed the room and took the card. There was no longer any hope left to her. Apparitions do not materialize to the point where they present their cards.
"What else can I say?" she asked, as if, in her desperate need, seeking counsel of him.
"If madame desires, I can report madame is away," he offered.
It was all one to him. It was all one to every one else in the world but herself. No one was interested. She was alone. Then why had not Monte himself let her alone? That was the point, but to determine that it was necessary to see him.
It was possible he had come merely by chance. It was possible he had come to see Peter, not knowing that Peter had gone. It was possible he had returned this way in order to take the Mediterranean route home. On the face of it, anything was more probable than that he had come deliberately to see her.
"You will ask monsieur to wait, and I will be down in a few moments," she replied to the boy.
"I have a caller," she announced nervously. "You must make me look as young as possible."
Even if she had grown old inside, there was no reason why she should reveal her secret.
"I am glad," nodded Marie. "Madame should put on a white gown and wear a ribbon in her hair."
"A ribbon!" exclaimed madame. "That would look absurd."
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--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.