While two men thought violently of Marise Sorel, she lay in bed as night wore on, intent upon thinking of one of them, and inadvertently thinking of both.

Severance hadn't shown himself at the theatre because, thanks to Garth, he was not looking his best. Neither was Garth, who, on the contrary, looked and felt his worst. Unlike Severance, however, he had very little personal vanity; and a black eye or so would not have prevented him from going as usual to gaze at "Dolores." He did not go because he didn't wish to go.

Smoking pipe after pipe, he prowled up and down his own sitting-room far into the night, much to the annoyance of a lady on the floor below. He mapped out a future full of revenges; and if "thoughts were things," his must have hurled themselves like Mills bombs into Marise's room, to burst at the foot of her bed. He did not flatter himself that they would reach so far; yet possibly it was some disturbing telepathic influence which forced Marise to think of Garth as often as of Severance, almost as often as she thought of herself.

She thought with fury of Severance, with extraordinary curiosity of Garth, and with pitying forgiveness of herself.

Of course, she knew that she was behaving, or planning possibly to behave, in a way which should bow her head with shame. Perhaps she was a little ashamed. At all events, she wouldn't have liked people to know what she contemplated doing, and with what motive. They might misunderstand. They might think her a bad lot, whereas she was not a bad lot, but a charming, cruelly-wounded girl who had to defend herself at almost any price.

Well, she wasn't claiming to be an angel! She'd hate to be one. It would be too dull. But she was just as far from being a "Vamp," or even a sort of up-to-date Becky Sharp. Becky Sharp had no heart. She, Marise, had too much. That was the trouble. She was hurt, hurt through and through! She'd go mad if she didn't do something desperate.

To marry this Garth man—actually marry him!—would be desperate enough. She'd said that she'd do it. She had—yes, actually proposed to him. But she could change her mind. Surely he wouldn't be surprised if she did. And if he were surprised it didn't matter, except that—he was such a strange sort of fellow, he might kill her! It was rather a wonder he hadn't killed Tony—or tried to. She would somehow have fancied he was that sort! But she must have been mistaken in him. Mums said that Tony'd said (through the 'phone) that Garth had accepted the promise of a million dollars for—for being what she'd herself invited him to be: her "dummy" husband.

What was his motive? Was it what she had actually believed: that he loved her so wildly he'd do anything to get her? Or was Tony right; had every man his price in hard cash?

Marise sat up in bed. She couldn't lie still!

"By Jove, I wouldn't do such a thing if I were a man!" she nobly felt. "Not if I loved a girl. I wouldn't have her on such terms. Which is it with Garth?"

There it was again! She couldn't banish him from her thoughts. His big image blocked out that of Severance. But then, she wasn't curious concerning Severance. She knew all about his motives.

"I won't do the beastly thing!" she said out aloud, or almost aloud. If it had been quite, it might have brought Mums flying helpfully in from the next room, and Marise didn't want Mums at this moment. "I didn't mean it really, even at first."

Then she reminded herself that it wouldn't kill her if people did think that Lord Severance had jilted her. She needn't marry out of pique because of a nine days' wonder like that. She had had plenty of proposals (though nothing quite so exciting as Tony, perhaps), and she was bound to have plenty more. ............