Melanie looked up, startled. "The _Jeanne D'Arc_, was it?" she cried. "Are you sure? But, of course--there must be many boats by that name, are there not? But did he say nothing more--where he was going, and why he changed his plans?" "No, not a word more than that. Why? Do you know of a boat named the _Jeanne D'Arc_?" "Yes, very well; but it can not matter. It must be another vessel, surely. Meanwhile, what are you going to do without your companion?" Aleck rose from the slender gilt chair where, as usual, he had perched himself, walked to the window and thrust his hands into his pockets for a contemplative moment, then he turned and came to a stand squarely before Melanie, looking down on her with his quizzical, honest eyes. "That depends, Melanie," he said slowly, "upon whether you are going to marry me or not." [Illustration: "That depends upon whether you are going to marry me."] For a second or two Melanie's eyes refused to lift; but Aleck's firm-planted figure, his steady gaze, above all, his dominating will, forced her to look up. There he was, smiling, strong, big, kindly. Melanie started to smile, but for the second time that morning her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. "I can't talk to you towering over me like that," she said at last softly, her smile winning against the tears. Aleck did not move. "I don't want you to 'talk to' me about it; all I want is for you to say 'yes.'" "But I'm not going to say 'yes;' at least, I don't think I am. Do sit down." Aleck started straight for the gilt chair. "Oh, no; not that! You are four times too big for that chair. Besides, it's quite valuable; it's a Louis Quinze." Aleck indulged in a vicious kick at the ridiculous thing, picked up an enormous leather-bottomed chair made apparently of lead, and placed it jauntily almost beside Miss Reynier's chair, but facing the other way. "This is much better, thank you," he said. "Now tell me why you think you are not going to say 'yes' to me." Melanie's mood of softness had not left her; but sitting there, face to face with this man, face to face with his seriousness, his masculine will and strength, she felt that she had something yet to struggle for, some deep personal right to be acknowledged. It was with a dignity, an aloofness, that was quite real, yet very sweet, that she met this American lover. He had her hand in his firm grasp, but he was waiting for her to speak. He was giving her the hearing that was, in his opinion, her right. "In the first place," Melanie began, "you ought to know more about me--who I am, and all that sort of thing. I am, in one sense, not at all what I seem to be; and that, in the case of marriage, is a dangerous thing."