For an instant of mere relief from strain Nancy saw herself in Paris, studying as she had always wanted to study, doing some real work, all Paris hers to play with like a big gray stone toy, never having to worry about loving, about being loved, about people you loved. Being free. Like taking off your hot, hot clothes and lying in water when you were too hot and tired even to think of sleeping. Oliver too--she'd leave him free--he'd really work better without her--without having her to take care of and make money for and worry about always---- The mind turned the other way. But what would doing anything be like with Oliver out of it when doing things together had been all that mattered all the last year? They couldn't decide things like this on a prickly hot August night when both of them were nearly dead with fatigue. It wasn't _real_. Even after Oliver had shut the door she'd been sure he'd come back, though she hoped he wouldn't just while she was crying; she never had been, she thought viciously, one of those happy people who look like rain-goddesses when they cry. He must come back. She shut her eyes and told him to as hard as she could. But he didn't. All very well to be proud and dignified when both of you lived near each other. But Oliver was going back to New York tomorrow--and if he went back while they were still like this--She knew his train--the ten seven. She tried being proud in a dozen different expressive attitudes for ten minutes or so: Then she suddenly relaxed and went over to the telephone, smiling rather ashamedly at herself. “Hotel Rosario?” “Yes.” “Can I speak to Mr. Oliver Crowe? He is staying there isn't he?” A pause full of little jingling sounds. “Yes, he's staying here but he hasn't come in yet this evening. Do you wish to leave a message?” Nancy hesitates. “N-no.” That would be just a little too humble. “Or the name of the party calling?” He will know, of course. Still, had she better say? Then she remembers the need of punishing him just a little. After all--it is hardly fair she should go all the way toward making up when he hasn't even started. “No--no name. But tell him somebody called, please.” “Very well.” And Nancy goes back to wonder if the reason Oliver hasn't gone back to the hotel is that he is returning here in an appropriate suit of sackcloth. She hopes he _will_ come before mother and father get back. But even while she is hoping it, the large blue policeman is saying something about “'Sturbance of the peace” to the desk-sergeant, and Oliver is going down on the blotter as Donald Richardson. XVIII