the north had given place to the wooing
softness of the Riviera, and the wet blankets of haze over the gardens
of the Tuileries to the golden sunlight of the flower-decked south, so
he had come again out of winter into spring, and the final result of
his life's equation was the man that had been Saxon, untouched by the
old Marston.

Duska's stay at Nice had been begun in apathy. About her were all the
influences of beauty and roses and soft breezes, but it was not until
she had read this first letter from Marston that these things meant
anything to her. Then, suddenly, she had awakened to a sense of its
delight. She knew that he would not come at once, and she felt that
this was best. She wanted him to come back to her when he could come
as the man who had been in her life, and, since she knew he was
coming, she could wait. Her eyes had become as brightly blue as the
Mediterranean mirroring the sky, and her cheeks had again taken on
their kinship to the roses of the Riviera. Once more, she was one with
the nature of this favored spot, a country that some magical realist
seems to have torn bodily from the enchanted Isles of Imagination, and
transplanted in the world of Fact.

Now, she became eager to see everything, and it so happened that, when
Marston, who had not notified her of the day of his arrival, reached
her hotel, it was to find that she and her aunt had motored over to
Monte Carlo, by the upper Corniche Road, that show-drive of the world
which climbs along the heights with the sea below and the sky, it
would seem, not far above.

The man turned out again to the _Promenade des Anglais_. The sun was
shining on its whiteness, and it seemed that the city was a huge
structure of solid marble, set between the sea and the color-spotted
slopes of the villa-clad hills.

Marston was highly buoyant as he made his way to the garage where he
could secure a car to give chase. He even paused with boyish and
delighted interest to gaze into the glittering shop windows of the
_Promenade_ and the _Avenue Felix Faure_, where were temptingly
displayed profound booklets guaranteeing the purchaser a sure system
for conquering the chances of roulette "on a capital of L9, playing
red or black, manque or passe, pair or impair, and compiled by one
with four years of experience."

He had soon negotiated for a car, and had gained the friendship of a
chauffeur, who grinned happily and with contentment when he learned
that monsieur'