Marise laughed a funny little laugh. "Thanks! But doesn't one 'wish joy' to the bride and '_congratulate_' the bridegroom?" By this time Zélie was at the telephone, but she turned, and her black eyes darted at Marise one small flame of the fire in her heart. "I wish you joy, of course," she said. "But I _must_ congratulate you too, because I've known Ja--Major Garth since before the war, and I know what he _is_. He's _great_! If you lumped together most of the best men you've met, they wouldn't make _one_ John Garth!" "Ha ha! he _is_ very big!" giggled Marise. "Quite an out-size." Zélie could have boxed the ears under the delicious boudoir cap. They deserved to be boxed! "His _soul_ is big!" the older girl snapped. "I only hope you--I mean, there aren't many women capable of appreciating him. But, of course, you must be, or you wouldn't have succumbed to him so soon." "Succumbed!" Marise flung back the word with just the least shrug of her shoulders. For an instant the two glared at each other, though "glare" is a melodramatic word which doesn't chime well with nicely-brought-up girls in the twentieth century. When Marise, as a child, had looked at anyone in that way, she called it "snorting with her eyes." Now, it was only for a third of a second. Then Miss Marks applied herself to the telephone, and never had her neat back looked so square and business-like. There was no more time to waste upon useless repartees with a secretary, so Marise bolted to her own room. She meant and wished to be dressed and fed in three-quarters of an hour, but never had she quite brought off that feat--at least, never since she'd become a successful star; and she didn't quite bring it off now. Her hair was being done when Mums tapped and entered upon the scene. She looked grave and rather worried, though she never actually frowned, for fear of wrinkles. "That man Garth has come," she announced in a low voice. "What an hour for a call! Do you wish to see him?" "I sent for him," Marise explained. "Didn't he tell you? Or haven't you spoken to him?" "I have spoken to him, but he didn't tell me," said Mary Sorel. "I came into the salon, and there he was with Miss Marks. I was never so surprised in my life!" "I don't see why, as you know perfectly well I'm going to marry him," returned Marise. "Oh, Céline! you've dug a hairpin about an _inch_ into my head! Now mind, whatever you hear us say must go no further." "But certainly not, Mademoiselle," vowed Céline, who spoke excellent English, though the two ladies loved proudly to air their French for her benefit. "It is indeed true that Mademoiselle will marry this _Monsieur American_?" "It is indeed true," Marise repeated drily. "It won't take place--I mean the wedding--for some time, however," Mrs. Sorel hurried to add.