it quite clear--and the ball would be spun. As it slowed down, the
tension in the crowd would increase. "_Mon Dieu_!" a woman would cry in a
shrill voice; there would be guttural exclamations from Germans; at the
edge of the crowd strong men would swoon. At last a sudden shriek ... and
the croupier's voice, trembling for the first time for thirty years,
"_Dix-sept_!" Then gold and notes would be pushed at the Chevalier. He
would stuff his pockets with them; he would fill his hat with them; we
others, we would stuff our pockets too. The bank would send out for more
money. There would be loud cheers from all the company (with the
exception of one man, who had put five francs on sixteen and had shot
himself) and we should be carried--that is to say, we four men--shoulder
high to the door, while by the deserted table Myra and Dahlia clung to
each other, weeping tears of happiness....

Something like that.

What happened was different. As far as I could follow, it was this. Over
the heads of an enormous, badly-dressed and utterly indifferent crowd
Simpson handed his thirty francs to the croupier.

"_Dix-sept_," he said.

The croupier with his rake pushed the money on to seventeen.

Another croupier with his rake pulled it off again ... and stuck to it.

The day's fun was over.

* * * * *

"What _did_ win?" asked Myra some minutes later, when the fact that we
should never see our money again had been brought home to her.

"Zero," said Archie.

I sighed heavily.

"My usual score," I said, "not my highest."

VI.

THE RECORD OF IT

"I shall be glad to see Peter again," said Dahlia, as she folded up her
letter from home.

Peter's previous letter, dictated to his nurse-secretary, had, according
to Archie, been full of good things. Cross-examination of the proud
father, however, had failed to reveal anything more stirring than "I love
mummy," and--er--so on.

We were sitting in the loggia after what I don't call breakfast--all of
us except Simpson, who was busy with a mysterious package. We had not
many days left; and I was beginning to feel that, personally, I should
not be sorry to see things like porridge again. Each to his taste.

"The time has passed absurdly quickly," said Myra. "We don't seem to have
done _anything_--except enjoy ourselves. I mean anything specially
Rivierish. But it's been heavenly."

"We've done lots of Rivierish things," I protested. "If you'll