“Bertier,” exclaimed Brewster, “I must have the thing now. What’s to be done? You’ve got to help me out.”
But the courier, prodigal as he was of gestures, had no words which seemed pertinent.
“There must be some way of getting at this marquise,” Monty continued reflectively. “What are her tastes? Do you know anything about her?”
Suddenly the face of the courier grew bright. “I have it,” he said, and then he faltered. “But the expense, monsieur—it would be heavy.”
“Perhaps we can meet it,” suggested Monty, quietly. “What’s the idea?”
It was explained, with plenty of action to make it clear. The courier had heard in Florence that madame la marquise had a passion for automobiles. But with her inadequate fortune and the many demands upon it, it was a weakness not readily gratified. The machine she had used during the winter was by no means up-to-date. Possibly if Monsieur—yet it was too much—no villa—
But Brewster’s decision was made. “Wire the fellow,” he said, “that I will add to my last offer a French machine of the latest model and the best make. Say, too, that I would like immediate possession.”
He secured it, and the crowd was transferred at once to fairyland. There were protests, of course, but these Brewster had grown to expect and he was learning to carry things with a high hand. The travelers had been preceded by Bertier, and the greeting they received from the steward of the estate and his innumerable assistants was very Italian and full of color. A break in their monotony was welcome.
The loveliness of the villa and its grounds, which sloped down to the gentle lake, silenced criticism. For a time it was supremely satisfying to do nothing. Pettingill wandered about as though he could not believe it was real. He was lost in a kind of atmosphere of ecstasy. To the others, who took it more calmly, it was still a sort of paradise. Those who were happy found in it an intensification of happiness, and to those who were sad it offered the tenderest opportunities for melancholy. Mrs. Dan told Brewster that only a poet could have had this inspiration. And Peggy added, “Anything after this would be an anticlimax. Really, Monty, you would better take us home.”
“I feel like the boy who was shut in a closet for punishment and found it the place where they kept the jam,” said “Subway.” “It is almost as good as owning Central Park.”
The stables were well equipped and the days wore on in a wonderful peace. It was on a radiant afternoon, when twelve of the crowd had started out, after tea, for a long ride toward Lugano, that Monty determined to call Peggy Gray to account. He was certain that she had deliberately avoided him for days and weeks, and he could find no reason for it. Hour after hour he had lain awake wondering where he had failed her, but the conclusion of one moment was rejected the next. The Monte Carlo episode seemed the most plausible cause, yet even before that he had noticed that whenever he approached her she managed to be talking with someone else. Two or three times he was sure she had seen his intention before she took refuge with Mrs. Dan or Mary Valentine or Pettingill. The thought of the last name gave Monty a sudden thrill. What if it were he who had come between them? It troubled him, but there were moments when the idea seemed impossible. As they mounted and started off, the exhilaration of the ride made him hopeful. They were to have dinner in the open air in the shadow of an abbey ruin some miles away, and the servants had been sent ahead to prepare it. It went well, and with Mrs. Dan’s help the dinner was made gay. On the return Monty who was off last spurred up his horse to join Peggy. She seemed eager to be with the rest and he lost no time with a preamble.
“Do you know, Peggy,” he began, “something seems to be wrong, and I am wondering what it is.”
“Why, what do you mean, Monty?” as he paused.
“Every time I come near you, child, you seem to have something else to do. If I join the group you are in, it is the signal for you to break away.”
“Nonsense, Monty, why should I avoid you? We have known one another much too long for that.” But he thought he detected some contradiction in her eyes, and he was right. The girl was afraid of him, afraid of the sensations he awoke, afraid desperately of betrayal.
“Pettingill may appeal to you,” he said, and his voice was serious, “but you might at least be courteous to me.”
“How absurd you are, Monty Brewster.” The girl grew hot. “You needn’t think that your million gives you the privilege of dictating to all of your guests.”
“Peggy, how can you,” he interjected.
She went on ruthlessly. “If my conduct interferes with your highness’s pleasure I can easily join the Prestons in Paris.”
Suddenly Brewster remembered that Pettingill had spoken of the Prestons and expressed a fleeting wish that he might be with them in the Latin Quarter. “With Pettingill to follow, I suppose,” he said, icily. “It would certainly give you more privacy.”
“And Mrs. Dan more opportunities,” she retorted as he dropped back toward the others.
The artist instantly took his place. The next moment he had challenged her to a race and they were flying down the road in the moonlight. Brewster, not to be outdone, was after them, but it was only a moment before his horse shied violently at something black in the road. Then he saw Peggy’s horse galloping riderless. Instantly, with fear at his throat, he had dismounted and was at the girl’s side. She was not hurt, they found, only bruised and dazed and somewhat lamed. A
