But she could not rest on this special pleading. What right had she to be hard to this man? She had _asked_ him to marry her. His crime was that he had granted her wish and consented to play this dummy hand; and now the deed was done he was not grovelling to her or to Tony Severance. How much more _British_ he seemed, by the by, than dark, Greek Tony, of subtle ways! At luncheon, talking with Pobbles, he had spoken of Yorkshire as _his_ county. Marise wondered what he had meant. But, of course, she would not ask. John Garth's past was no affair of hers. Still, she couldn't stop puzzling about him. She puzzled nearly all night. He was turning out such a different man from the man she had vaguely imagined! In fact, he was different from any man she had ever met, off the stage or on. Staring into darkness as the hours passed, Marise felt that she could not wait for Céline. She'd get up at dawn, dress, and flit to her own room in Mums' suite. But no! She couldn't do that. She hadn't a key to that suite. She would have to pound on the door, and other people beside Mums and Céline would hear. There would be gossip--which she'd sacrificed much already to avoid. Dreading the long night of wakefulness, the girl suddenly dropped fast asleep, and began at once to dream of Garth. Zélie Marks was in the dream, too, and--dreams are so ridiculous!--Marise was jealous. What had happened between the two she didn't know; but she would have known in another instant, for Zélie was going to confess, if a rap had not sounded at the door and made her sit up in a fright. Marise was just about to cry, "You can't come in!" when she realised that it was the peculiar double knock of Céline. The Frenchwoman was prompt, though the night had seemed so long. Her mistress sipped hot, fragrant Orange Pekoe from an eggshell cup, and in a whisper bade Céline move quietly, not to rouse Monsieur Garth in the next room. "Oh, Mademoiselle--Madame!" said the maid. "Monsieur has gone out, early as it is. His door is wide open." Marise must have slept more soundly than she knew. She hadn't heard a sound. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Céline about the jewel-cases--if they were lying in the corridor. But she couldn't put such a question! The maid would be too curious--she would fancy there had been some vulgar quarrel instead of--instead of--well, Marise hardly knew how to qualify her own conduct. "I'm afraid I _was_ vulgar," she thought, like a child repenting last night's misdeeds. "It was horrid of me to throw those lovely things on the floor. Poor fellow, he must have spent a fortune--_somebody's_ fortune (whose, I wonder?)--on those pearls, and diamonds and emeralds, and all the rest. Yet I never said one word of gratitude. I was never such a brute before!... I'm sure it _must_ be his fault. Still--I don't like myself one bit better than I like him."