departure for Paris. That was when she indignantly, almost tearfully, called his attention to the squib in a London society journal which rather daringly prophesied a “break in the Ravorelli-Garrison match,” and referred plainly to the renewal of an       “across-the-Atlantic affection.” When he wrathfully promised to thrash the editor of the paper, she shocked him by saying that he had created “enough of a sensation,” and he went home with the dazed feeling of one who has suffered an unexpected blow.     

       On the evening before the Garrisons crossed the channel, Lord and Lady Saxondale and Philip Quentin found themselves long after midnight in talk about the coming marriage. Quentin was rather silent. His thoughts seemed far from the room in which he sat, and there was the shadow of a new line about the corners of his mouth.     

       “I am going to Brussels next week,” he said, deliberately. The others stared at him in amazement.     

       “To Brussels? You mean New York,” said Lady Frances, faintly.     

       “New York won't see me for some time. I'm going to make a tour of the continent.     

       “This is going too far, old man,” cried Lord Bob. “You can't gain anything by following her, and you'll only raise the devil of a row all round. Dash it! stay in London.”      

       “Thanks for the invitation, Bob, but I've always had a desire to learn something about the miniature Paris. I shall spend some time in Paris, and then go up there to compare the places. Besides, there won't be any row.”      

       “But there will be, Phil,” cried Lady Saxondale. “You must keep out of this affair. Why, all Europe knows of the wedding, and even now the       continent is quietly nursing the gossip of the past two weeks.” She dropped into a chair, perplexed and anxious.     

       “Let me tell you something, both of you. The events of the past two weeks are tame in comparison with those of the next two months,” said Quentin, a new light in his eye. His tall figure straightened and his nostrils expanded.     

       “Wha—what do you mean?” floundered Lord Bob.     

       “Just this: I love Dorothy Garrison, and I'm going to marry her.”      

 Prev. P 26/206 next