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Brent we don't want to meet his friends yet.""Now what the hell did you do that for?" demanded Freddie.It was the first time she had crossed him; it was the first time he had been reminiscent of the Freddie she used to know.

"Because," said she evenly, "I will not meet people under false pretenses.""What rot!"

"I will not do it," replied she in the same quiet way.

He assumed that she meant only one of the false pretenses--the one that seemed the least to her.He said:

"Then we'll draw up and sign a marriage contract and date it a couple of years ago, before the new marriage law was passed to save rich men's drunken sons from common law wives.""I am already married," said Susan."To a farmer out in Indiana."Freddie laughed."Well, I'll be damned! You! You!" He looked at her ermine-lined cloak and laughed again."An Indiana farmer!" Then he suddenly sobered."Come to think of it," said he, "that's the first thing you ever told me about your past.""Or anybody else," said Susan.Her body was quivering, for we remember the past events with the sensations they made upon us at the time.She could smell that little room in the farmhouse.Allen Street and all the rest of her life in the underworld had for her something of the vagueness of dreams--not only now but also while she was living that life.

But not Ferguson, not the night when her innocent soul was ravished as a wolf rips up and munches a bleating lamb.No vagueness of dreams about that, but a reality to make her shudder and reel whenever she thought of it--a reality vivider now that she was a woman grown in experiences and understanding.

"He's probably dead--or divorced you long ago.""I do not know."

"I can find out--without stirring things up.What was his name?""Ferguson."

"What was his first name?"

She tried to recall."I think--it was Jim.Yes, it was Jim."She fancied she could hear the voice of that ferocious sister snapping out that name in the miserable little coop of a general room in that hot, foul, farm cottage.

"Where did he live?"

"His farm was at the edge of Zeke Warham's place--not far from Beecamp, in Jefferson County."She lapsed into silence, seemed to be watching the gay night streets of the Montmartre district--the cafes, the music halls, the sidewalk shows, the throngs of people every man and woman of them with his or her own individual variation upon the fascinating, covertly terrible face of the Paris mob.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, when a remark brought no answer.

"The past," said she."And the future."

"Well--we'll find out in a few days that your farmer's got no claim on you--and we'll attend to that marriage contract and everything'll be all right.""Do you want to marry me?" she asked, turning on him suddenly.

"We're as good as married already," replied he."Your tone sounds as if _you_ didn't want to marry _me_." And he laughed at the absurdity of such an idea.

"I don't know whether I do or not," said she slowly.

He laid a gentle strong hand on her knee.Gentle though it was, she felt its strength through the thickness of her cloak.

"When the time comes," said he in the soft voice with the menace hidden in it, "you'll know whether you do or don't.

You'll know you _do_--Queenie."

The auto was at the curb before the Abbaye.And on the steps, in furs and a top hat, stood the tall, experienced looking, cynical looking playwright.Susan's eyes met his, he lifted his hat, formal, polite.

"I'll bet he's got the best table in the place," said Palmer, before opening the door, "and I'll bet it cost him a bunch."