Marjory crossed to the window and stared out at the sun-lighted street. It was very beautiful out there--very warm and gentle and peaceful. And at her back all this turmoil. Once again the unspoken cry that sprang to her lips was just this:-- "It is n't fair--it is n't fair!" For ten years she had surrendered herself to Aunt Kitty--surrendered utterly the deep, budding years of her young womanhood. To the last minute she had paid her obligations in full. Then, at the moment she had been about to spread her long-folded wings and soar into the sunshine, this other complication had come. When the lawyer informed her of the fortune that was hers, she had caught her breath. It spelled freedom. Yet she asked for so little--for neither luxuries nor vanities; for just the privilege of leading for a space her own life, undisturbed by any responsibility. Selfish? Yes. But she had a right to be selfish for a little. She had answered that question when Peter Noyes--Monte reminded her in many ways of Peter--had come down to her farm in Littlefield one Sunday. She had seen more of Peter than of any other man, and knew him to be honest. He had been very gentle with her, and very considerate; but she knew what was in his heart, so she had put the question to herself then and there. If she chose to follow the road to which he silently beckoned--the road to all those wonderful hopes that had surged in upon her at eighteen--she had only to nod. If she had let herself go, she could have loved Peter. Then--she drew back at so surrendering herself. It meant a new set of self-sacrifices. It meant, however hallowed, a new prison. Because, if she loved, she would love hard. Monte glanced at his watch again. "Five minutes gone! Have you seen him leave?" "No, Monte," she answered. He folded his arms resignedly. "You don't really mean to act against my wishes, Monte?" "If that's the only way of getting rid of him," he answered coolly. "But don't you see--don't you understand that you will only make a scandal of it?" she said. "What do you mean?" "If he makes a scene it will be in the papers, and then--oh, well, they will ask by what right--" "I'd answer I was simply ridding you of a crazy man." "They would smile. Oh, I know them! Here in Paris they won't believe that a woman who is n't married--" She stopped abruptly. Monte's brows came together. Here was the same situation that had confronted him a few minutes before. Not only had he no right, but if he assumed a right his claim might be misinterpreted. Undoubtedly Teddy himself would be the first to misinterpret it. It would be impossible for a man of his sort to think in any other direction. And then--well, such stories were easier to start than to stop.