The rays of the sun were falling aslant as she stepped out, and the western sky was aglow with crimson and purple and pink. It was a drowsy world, with sounds grown distant and the perfume and color of the flowers grown nearer. At the door of the inn, which, looked as if it must have been standing right there in the days of dashing cavaliers, the proprietor and his wife were obsequiously bowing a welcome. It was not often that the big machines deigned to rest here. Monte stepped toward them. "Madame desires to rest here for the night, if accommodations may be secured," he said. For the night? Mon Dieu! The proprietor had reckoned upon only a temporary sojourn--for a bottle of wine, perhaps. He had never entertained such a host as this. How many rooms would be required? "Four," answered Monte. "Let me see; monsieur and madame could be put in the front room." Monte shook his head. "Madame will occupy the front room alone," he informed him. "Eh? Oh, I understand; a sister. That was a curious mistake. Eh bien, madame in the front room. Monsieur in the room to the right. The maid in the room on the back. But there is the chauffeur." There was no room left for him, or for the machine either. "Then he can go on to Joigny," announced Monte. So Louis went on, and in less than five minutes the others were safely sorted out and tucked away in their respective rooms. "We ought to get out and see the sun set," Monte called to Marjory as she waved him an adieu at her door. "I'll be down in ten minutes," she nodded. There is a princess latent in every woman. She makes her appearance early, and too often vanishes early. Not many women have the good fortune to see her--except perhaps for a few brief moments--after seventeen. But, however, far in the background, she remains as at least a romantic possibility as long as any trace of romance itself remains. She is a languid, luxury-loving creature, this princess; an Arabian Nights princess of silks and satins and perfumed surroundings. Through half-closed eyes she looks out upon a world of sunshine and flowers, untroubled as the fairy folk. Every one does her homage, and she in her turn smiles graciously, and there is nought else for her to do except to rest and be amused. For a moment, here in the twilight, this princess returned to Marjory. As she sat before the mirror, doing over her hair, she held her chin a little higher at the thought and smiled at herself contentedly. She used to do just this--and feel ashamed of herself afterward--long, long ago, after she first met Monte at the Warrens'. For it was he who then had been her gallant knight, without which no one may be a fairy-book princess. He had just finished his college course, and eager-eyed was about to travel over the wide world. He was big and buoyant and handsome, and even more irresponsible then than now.