Robert and Mark Pryor had just reached the outskirts of the crowd, when several imposing motor cars drew up in front of the exhibition building. "What on earth’s the matter now?" said Robert. "Has our Anglo-American Prince of Wales returned?" A very handsome young man with two richly dressed young ladies alighted from the first car, whilst the moving picture brigade went into immediate action and the crowds thundered out cheers. "It’s the first day of the great Allied Armies’ Bazaar," said Pryor. "The Duchess of Keswick and Mr. and Mrs. Claude Fontaine are to open the affair at three o’clock. There they go now." "What a match for him!" murmured Robert, setting eyes for the first time on Marjorie Armstrong’s proud beauty. "More than a match," said Pryor, softly. *CHAPTER THIRTY* *I* "You don’t love me, Robert!" "It’s false," he said, retreating. "I do love you. I’ve loved you madly ever since you fled to Paris." "Then why do you run away? I don’t want you to marry me. You’re too poor! But you might at least kiss me. Come back, Robert, please come back!" Following him, she put her arms around his neck and clasped him tight. "Let me go, Janet. I won’t marry you. I won’t! I’ll never, _never, NEVER_ marry a woman who has had a free lover!" Still he receded, and ever so gently tried to unclasp her hands. "You needn’t marry me, Robert. Only treat me just as you’d treat a man. Don’t you remember that you promised you would? You promised on the pier in Kips Bay, when your heart was a free and a fetterless thing." She concentrated all her magic upon him, upon his pale thoughtful face and discerning hazel-brown eyes. But look! The eyes were not hazel-brown—they were a flashing blue! And these were not the mobile sensitive features of Robert, but the bold virile features (somewhat distorted by angry passion) of Claude. "What!" he cried. "Marry you here—here in Brussels—after all I’ve suffered on your account? Serpent! Shall I never escape your sting?" Hovering somewhere in the background, a thin-edged female with horn-rimmed spectacles took a malignant joy in fanning the flames of his rage. Claude wrenched both her hands loose and flung them off, the violence of the action sending her prone to the floor. *II* Janet sat up in bed and shook back the tangles of her nut-brown hair. What a horrible nightmare! All on account of the rumpus started last night by the thin-edged female with the horn-rimmed spectacles. Not in Brussels, but in New York. Not in the Grand Hotel, Boulevard Anspach, but in the Susan B. Anthony House, Park Avenue, Mrs. R. H. L. Jerome’s new apartment house for self-supporting professional women with children.