She was standing by the dressing-table, nervously fingering a 27 little silver box, and for a moment she could not speak, then she said in desperation: 

27

"Chris—I want to tell you—I know all about our Wedding!" 

He echoed her words blankly. 

"You know all about it. You funny kid! I suppose you do. Why——" 

He stopped, struck by something in her eyes. 

"What do you mean, Marie Celeste?" 

She turned round and faced him squarely. "I mean—I know why you married me," she said. 

"Why?" The hot blood rushed to his face. "Who told you?" he asked sharply. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

"Does that matter? I—just found out. And I—I wanted to say that . . . that it doesn't matter. I—I think it was quite right of you." 

He looked rather puzzled, then he smiled. 

"Oh, well—if you think it's right." He hesitated, and drew a step nearer to her. "Who told you, Marie?" he asked. "Aunt Madge agreed with me that there was no need for you to know." 

She pushed the soft hair back from her forehead. So Aunt Madge had been willing to deceive her as well. That hurt. Somehow she had always believed in Aunt Madge. 

She managed a smile. 

"What does it matter? I only thought it was better we should start by—by not having any secrets. We—we've always been good friends, haven't we?" Friends! When she adored him. 

"Of course!" He gave his agreement readily, and a sharp pain touched her heart. It was only friendship, then—on his side, at least. She knew how much she had longed for him to wipe out that word and substitute another. 

There was a little silence, then Chris said again: "Marie—is there anything the matter? You look—somehow you look—different!" 

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