"Of course, I 've had to do more or less hedging on account--of Madame Covington." "I'm sorry, Monte." "You need n't be, because it was she who introduced me to him. And, I tell you, he's fine and big and worth while all through. But you know that." "Yes." "That's why I 'm going to feel quite safe about leaving you with him." She started. That word "safe" was like a stab with a penknife. She would have rather had him strike her a full blow in the face than use it. Yet, in its miserable fashion, it expressed all that he had sought through her--all that she had allowed him to seek. From the first they had each sought safety, because they did not dare face the big things. Now, at the moment she was ready, the same weakness that she had encouraged in him was helping take him away from her. And the pitiful tragedy of it was that Peter was helping too, and then challenging her to accept still graver dangers through him. It was a pitiful tangle, and yet one that she must allow to continue. "You mean he'll help you not to worry about me?" "That's it," he nodded. "Because I've seen the man side of him, and it's even finer than the side you see." Her lips came together. "There's no reason why you should feel responsibility for me even without Peter," she protested. She was seated in one of the wicker chairs, chin in hand. He stepped toward her. "You don't think I'd be cad enough to desert my wife actually?" he demanded. He seemed so much in earnest that for a second the color flushed the chalk-white portions of her cheeks. "Sit down, Monte," she pleaded. "I--I did n't expect you to take it like that. I 'm afraid Peter is making you too serious. After all, you know, I 'm of age. I 'm not a child." He sat down, bending toward her. "We've both acted more or less like children," he said gently. "Now I guess the time has come for us to grow up. Peter will help you do that." "And you?" "He has helped me already. And when he gets his eyes back--" "You think there is a chance for that?" "Just one chance," he answered. "Oh!" she cried. "It's a big opportunity," he said. She rose and went to the window, where she looked out upon the gray ocean and the slanting rain and a world grown dull and sodden. He followed her there, but with his shoulders erect now. "I 'm going now," he said. "I think I shall take the night train for Paris. I want to leave the machine--the machine we came down here in--for you." "Don't--please don't." "It's for you and Peter. The thing for you both to do is to get out in it every day." "I--I don't want to." "You mean--" He placed his hand upon her arm, and she ventured one more look into his eyes. He was frowning. She must not allow that. She must send him away in good spirits. That was the least she could do. So she forced a smile. "All right," she promised; "if it will make you more comfortable." "It would worry me a lot if I thought you were n't going to be happy."