"Ah!" He continued to stand staring at her, and, as he had anticipated, he saw only Mary Zattiany. As far as he was concerned Mary Ogden had never existed. But he still felt no immediate desire to touch her. He came over and stood opposite her on the hearthrug, his hands in his pockets. "What have you been through?" he asked abruptly. "I've been through hell." "So I imagined," she said drily. "I can't say I've been through hell. I've grown too philosophical for that! I have thought as little as possible. I left it on the knees of the gods." There certainly was neither despair nor doubt in that vital voice of hers as she looked at him, and she was smiling. He twitched his shoulders under those understanding eyes and turned his own to the fire with a frown. "I don't believe you had a moment of misgiving. You were too sure of me." "Oh, no, I was not! I know life too well to be sure of anything, mon ami. Unlike that nice Vane boy, you have imagination and I gave you some hard swallowing. Poor boy, I'm afraid you've been choking ever since----" "Don't 'poor boy' me. I won't have it. I feel a thousand years old." He glared at her once more. "You are sure of me now--and quite right . . . but I don't feel in the least like kissing you. . . . I've barely slept and I feel like the devil." For the first time in many days she felt an inclination to throw back her head and give vent to a joyous laugh--joyous but amused, for she would always be Mary Zattiany. But she merely said: "My dear Lee, I could not stand being made love to at four in the afternoon. It is not aesthetic. Suppose we sit down. Tell me all about it." "I'll not tell you a thing." But he took the chair and lit a cigarette. "I'm more in love with you than ever, if you want to know. When will you marry me?" "Shall we say two months from today?" "Two months! Why not tomorrow?" "Oh, hardly. In the first place I'd like it all to be quite perfect, and I'd dreamed of spending our honeymoon in the Dolomites. I've a shooting box there on the shore of a wonderful lake. I used to stay there quite alone after my guests had left. . . . And then--well, it would hardly be fair to give New York two shocks in succession. They all take for granted I'll marry some one--I am already engaged to Mr. Osborne, although I have heard you alluded to meaningly--but better let them talk the first sensation to rags. . . . They will be angry enough with me for marrying a young man, but perhaps too relieved that I have not carried off one of their own sons. . . . Polly is in agonies at the present moment . . . we'll have to live in New York more or less--I suppose?" "More or less? Altogether. My work is here." "I believe there is more work for both of us in Europe." "And do you imagine I'd live on your money? I've nothing but what I make." "I could pull wires and get you into one of the embassies----" "I'm no diplomat, and don't want to be. Rotten lazy job."