He paused a moment, as if expecting her to make some reply. There, was nothing she could say. "It was n't what I expected," he went on. What else had Peter told him? "Was n't there any other way?" he asked. "I did n't send him home. He--he chose to go," she said. "Because it was n't any use for him to remain?" "I told him the truth," she nodded. "And he took it like a man!" exclaimed Monte enthusiastically. "I 'd like to show you his letter, only I don't know that it would be quite fair to him." "I don't want to see it," she cut in. "I--I know I should n't." What else besides his going had Peter told Monte? "It was his letter that brought me back," he said. She held her breath. She had warned Peter that if he as much as hinted at anything that she had confessed to him, she would lie to Monte. So she should--but God forbid that this added humiliation be brought upon her. "You see, when I went I expected that he would be left to care for you. With him and his sister here, I knew you would n't be alone. I thought they'd stay, or if they went--you'd go with them." "But why should n't I be alone?" she gathered strength to ask. "Because," he answered quickly, "it is n't good for you. It is n't good for any one. Besides, it is n't right. When we were married I made certain promises, and those hold good until we're unmarried." "Monte!" she cried. "As long as Peter was around, that was one thing; now that he's gone--" "It throws me back on your hands," she interrupted, in an attempt to assert herself. "Please to sit down. You're making your old mistake of trying to be serious. There's not the slightest reason in the world why you should bother about me like this." She ventured to look at him again. His brows were drawn together in a puzzled frown. Dear Monte--it was cruel of her to confuse him like this, when he was trying to see straight. He looked so very woe-begone when he looked troubled at all. "It--it is n't any bother," he stammered. "I should think it was a good deal," she answered, feeling for a moment that she had the upper hand. "Where did you come from to here?" "Paris." "You did n't go on to England at all?" "No." "Then you did n't get back to your schedule. If you had done that, you would n't have had any time left to--to think about other things." "I did n't get beyond the Normandie," he answered. "My schedule stopped short right there." He was still standing before her. Apparently he intended to remain. So she rose and crossed to another chair. He followed. "You should have gone on," she insisted. "I had my old room--next to yours," he said. She must trouble him still more. There was no other way. "That was rather sentimental of you, Monte, was n't it?" she asked lightly. "I went there as a man goes home," he answered softly. Her lips became suddenly dumb. "Then I had a long letter from Peter; the first one." "He has written you before?"