It was none of their business, at that. It would have been sheer presumption of them to have butted into any of the other affairs of his life: whether he was losing money or making money; whether he was going to England or to Spain, or going to remain where he was; whether he preferred chops for breakfast, or bread and coffee. Theoretically, then, it was sheer presumption for them to interest themselves in the question of whether he was an invalid confined to his room, or a convalescent able to get out, or a man wholly recovered. Yet he knew that, with every passing day that he came out into the sunshine, these same people were managing to make Marjory's position more and more delicate. It became increasingly less comfortable for her and for him when they returned to the hotel. Therefore he was not greatly surprised when she remarked one morning:-- "Monte, I've been thinking over where I shall go, and I 've about decided to go to Étois." "When?" he asked. "Very soon--before the end of the week, anyway." "But look here!" he protested. "What am I going to do?" "I don't know," she smiled. "But one thing is certain: you can't play sick very much longer." "The doctor says it will be another two weeks before my arm is out of the sling." "Even so, the rest of you is well. There is n't much excuse for my bringing in your breakfasts, Monte." "Do you mind doing it?" "No." "Who is to tie on this silk handkerchief?" He wore a black silk handkerchief over his bandages, which she always adjusted for him. She met his eyes a moment, and smiled again. "I'm going to Étois," she said. "I think I shall get a little villa there and stay all summer." "Then," he declared, "I think I shall go to Étois myself." "I 'm afraid you must n't." "But the doctor says I must n't play golf for six months. What do you think I'm going to do with myself until then?" "There's all the rest of the world," she suggested. Monte frowned. "Are you going to break our engagement, then?" "It has served its purpose, hasn't it?" she asked. "Up to now," he admitted. "But you say it can't go any farther." "No, Monte." The next suggestion that leaped into Monte's mind was obvious enough, yet he paused a moment before voicing it. Perhaps even then he would not have found the courage had he not been rather panic-stricken. He had exactly the same feeling, when he thought of her in Étois, that he had when he thought of Edhart in Paradise. It started as resentment, but ended in a slate-gray loneliness. He could imagine himself as sitting here alone at one of these little iron tables, and decidedly it was not pleasant. When he pictured himself as returning to his room in the hotel and to the company of the hotel valet, it put him in a mood that augured ill for the valet.