The Triflers | Page 7

not. He supposed that freedom was what women enjoyed from
birth--like queens. He supposed they even had especial opportunities in
that direction, and that most men were in the nature of being their
humble servitors.
"It is n't that I want to do anything especially proper or improper," she
hastened to assure him. "I have n't either the cravings or the ambitions
of the new woman. That, again, is where I 'm selfish. I'd like to
be"--she spoke hesitatingly--"I'd like to be just like you, Monte."
"Like me?" he exclaimed in surprise.
"Free to do just what I want to do--nothing particularly good, nothing
particularly bad; free to go here or go there; free to live my own life;
free to be free."
"Well," he asked, "what's to prevent?"
"Teddy Hamilton--and the others," she answered. "In a way, they take
the place of Aunty. They won't let me alone. They won't believe me
when I tell them I don't want them around. They seem to assume that,
just because I'm not married-- Oh, they are stupid, Monte!"
Henri, who had been stealing in with course after course, refilled the
glasses. He smiled discreetly as he saw her earnest face.
"What you need," suggested Monte, "is a sort of chaperon or secretary."
She shook her head.
"Would you like one yourself?" she demanded.
"It would be a good deal of a nuisance," he admitted; "but, after all--"
"I won't have it!" she burst out. "It would spoil everything. It would be
like building one's own jail and employing one's own jailer. I could n't
stand that. I 'd rather be annoyed as I am than be annoyed by a

chaperon."
She was silent a moment, and then she exclaimed:
"Why, I'd almost rather marry Teddy! I'd feel freer--honestly, I think I
'd feel freer with a husband than a chaperon."
"Oh, see here!" protested Monte. "You must n't do that."
"I don't propose to," she answered quietly.
"Then," he said, "the only thing left is to go away where Teddy and the
others can't find you."
"Where?" she asked with interest.
"There are lots of little villages in Switzerland."
She shook her head.
"And along the Riviera."
"I love the little villages," she replied. "I love them here and at home.
But it's no use."
She smiled. There was something pathetic about that smile--something
that made Covington's arm muscles twitch.
"I should n't even have the aid of the taxis in the little villages," she
said.
Monte leaned back.
"If they only had here in Paris a force of good, honest Irish cops instead
of these confounded gendarmes," he mused.
She looked her astonishment at the irrelevant observation.
"You see," he explained, "it might be possible then to lay for Teddy H.

some evening and--argue with him."
"It's nice of you, Monte, to think of that," she murmured.
Monte was nice in a good many ways.
"The trouble is, they lack sentiment, these gendarmes," he concluded.
"They are altogether too law-abiding."
CHAPTER III
A SUMMONS
Monte himself had sometimes been accused of lacking sentiment; and
yet, the very first thing he did when starting for his walk the next
morning was to order a large bunch of violets to be sent to number
sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain. Then, at a somewhat faster pace
than usual, he followed the river to the Jardin des Tuileries, and crossed
there to the Avenue des Champs Élysées into the Bois.
He walked as confidently as if overnight his schedule had again been
put in good running order; for, overnight, spring had come, and that
was what his schedule called for in Paris. The buds, which until now
had hesitated to unfold, trembled forth almost before his eyes under the
influence of a sun that this morning blazed in a turquoise sky. Perhaps
they had hurried a trifle to overtake Monte.
With his shoulders well back, filling his lungs deep with the perfumed
morning air, he swung along with a hearty, self-confident stride that
caused many a little nursemaid to turn and look at him again.
He had sent her violets; and yet, except for the fact that he had never
before sent her flowers, he could not rightly be accused of
sentimentalism. He had acted on the spur of the moment, remembering
only the sad, wistful smile with which she had bade him good-night
when she stood at the door of the pension. Or perhaps he had been
prompted by the fact that she was in Paris alone.

Until now it had never been possible to dissociate her completely from
Aunt Kitty. Marjory had never had a separate existence of her own. To
a great many people she had never been known except as Miss
Dolliver's charming niece, although to Monte she had been known
more particularly as a