For a moment he feasted upon her hungrily. To see her hair, when for months he had been forced to content himself with memories of it; to see her white forehead, her big, deep eyes and straight nose; to see the lips which he had only felt--all that held him silent. But he saw something else there, too. In physical detail this face was the same that he had seen before he was stricken. But something had been added. Before she had the features of a girl; now she had the features of a woman. Something had since been added to the eyes and mouth--something he knew nothing about. "Marjory," he said slowly, "I think there is a great deal you have left untold." She tightened her lips. There was no further use of evasion. If he pressed her with his eyes open, he must know the truth. "Yes, Peter," she answered. "I can't decide," he went on slowly, "whether it has to do with a great grief or a great joy." "The two so often come together," she trembled. "Yes," he nodded; "I think that is true. Perhaps they belong together." "I have only just learned that," she said. "And you've been left with the grief?" "I can't tell, Peter. Sometimes I think so, and then again I see the justice of it, and it seems beautiful. All I 'm sure of is that I 'm left alone." "Even with me?" "Even with you, Peter." He passed his hand over his eyes. "This other--do I know him?" he asked finally. "Yes." "It--it is Covington?" "Yes." She spoke almost mechanically. "I--I should have guessed it before. Had I been able to see, I should have known." "That is why I did n't wish you to see me--so soon," Marjory said. "Covington!" he repeated. "But what of the other woman?" She took a long breath. "I--I'm the other woman," she answered. "Marjory!" he cried. "Not she you told me of?" "Yes." "His wife!" "No--not that. Merely Mrs. Covington." "I don't understand. You don't mean you're not his wife!" He checked himself abruptly. "We were married in Paris," she hastened to explain. "But--but we agreed the marriage was to be only a form. He was to come down here with me as a _compagnon de voyage_. He wished only to give me the protection of his name, and that--that was all I wished. It was not until I met you, Peter, that I realized what I had done." "It was not until then you realized that you really loved him?" "Not until then," she moaned. "But, knowing that, you allowed me to talk as I did; to hope--"