That had been her privilege. That had been her right. She had been under no obligation to him then; she was under no obligation to him now. Her life was hers, to do with as she saw fit. He had no business to intrude himself, at this of all times, upon her. Not daring to look in the mirror again, she called Marie to adjust her hat and veil. "It is half past ten, Marie," she announced nervously. "I--I think Monsieur Covington must be waiting for us." "Yes, mademoiselle." Her ears caught at the word. "Marie." "Yes, mademoiselle." "I wish--even after this--to have you always address me as mademoiselle." "But that--" "It is my wish." It was a blue-and-gold morning, with the city looking as if it had received a scrubbing during the night. So too did Monte, who was waiting below for her. Clean-shaven and ruddy, in a dark-gray morning coat and top hat, he looked very handsome, even with his crippled arm. And quite like a bridegroom! For a moment he made her wish she had taken Marie's advice about her hair. She was in a brown traveling suit with a piquant hat that made her look quite Parisienne--though her low tan shoes, tied with big silk bows at her trim ankles, were distinctly American. Monte was smiling. "You are n't afraid?" he asked. "Of what, Monte?" "I don't know. We 're on our way." She took a long look at his steady blue eyes. They braced her like wine. "You must never let me be afraid," she answered. "Then--en avant!" he called. In a way, it was a pity that they could not have been married out of doors. They should have gone into a garden for the ceremony instead of into the subdued light of the chapel. Then, too, it would have been much better had the Reverend Alexander Gordon been younger. He was a gentle, saintly-looking man of sixty, but serious--terribly serious. He had lived long in Paris, but instead of learning to be gay he had become like those sad-faced priests at Notre Dame. Perhaps if he had understood better the present circumstances he would have entered into the occasion instead of remaining so very solemn. As Marjory shook hands with him she lost her bright color. Then, too, he had a voice that made her think again of Peter Noyes. In sudden terror she clung to Monte's arm, and during the brief ceremony gave her responses in a whisper. Peter Noyes himself could not have made of this journey to the embassy a more trying ordeal. A ring was slipped upon the fourth finger of her left hand. A short prayer followed, and an earnest "God bless you, my children," which left her feeling suffocated. She thought Monte would never finish talking with him--would never get out into the sunshine again. When he did, she shrank away from the glare of the living day. Monte gave a sigh of relief. "That's over, anyhow," he said. Hearing a queer noise behind him, he turned. There stood Marie, sniffling and wiping her eyes. "Good Heavens," he demanded, "what's this?"