As Garth had gone out, there was no great need for haste. Céline had brought all that was needed, and Marise might dress--as well as repent--at leisure. But she was wild with impatience to know whether the jewels were lying where she had thrown them. While Céline was letting the bath-water run, the girl peeped out into the flower-scented corridor. The jewel-cases had gone! This discovery gave her a slight shock. She had more than half expected to see them on the floor, and had wondered what she would do if they were there--whether she would pick them up and decide to accept the gifts after all, with a stiff, yet decent little speech of gratitude. "I'm sure you meant to do what I would like, and I don't wish to hurt your feelings," or something of that sort. _Now_, what should she do? The probability was that Garth himself had retrieved his rejected treasures. But there was just a chance--such horrors happened in hotels!--that a thief had pussy-footed into the suite to search for wedding presents, and had found them easily in an unexpected place. That would be _too_ dreadful! Because, if she--Marise--held her tongue, Garth would always believe that _she_ had annexed the things, and had chosen to be sulkily silent. "I shall have to bring up the subject somehow, the next time we meet--whenever that may be!" she thought ruefully. When Mrs. Garth arrived in the maternal suite, it was about the hour when Miss Sorel had been in the habit of slipping, half-dressed, from bedroom to salon. It was the time, also, when Miss Zélie Marks was accustomed to present herself, and begin her morning tasks: sharpening pencils, sorting letters, etc. But to-day the salon was unoccupied. The letters lay in a fat, indiscriminate heap, just as Céline had received them from one of the floor-waiters. Mrs. Sorel was still in bed, and still suffering from last night's headache, which had increased, rather than diminished. She burst into tears at sight of Marise, but was slowly pacified on hearing the story of the night. "He was afraid to----" she began; but the girl broke in with the queerest sensation of anger. "He _wasn't_ afraid--of _anything_! Whatever else he may have been, he wasn't afraid. I don't believe the creature knows how to be afraid." Mrs. Sorel did not insist. She didn't wish to waste time discussing Garth. She wanted to talk of Tony. There was a letter from him. It had come by hand, early--sent as he was starting. Of course he hadn't dared write to Marise direct, but there was an enclosure for her. "You had better read it now," advised Mums. "At any moment that man may turn up, asking for you, and trying to make some scene." Marise took the crested envelope that had come inside her mother's note from Tony; but somehow or other she felt an odd repulsion against it. She didn't care to read what Tony had to say to Mrs. John Garth at parting; and she had an excuse to procrastinate because, just then, the telephone sounded in the salon adjoining.