at the sea, the palaces on
the promontory, the yachts in the harbor, all tranquil in shadowy
moonlight.

"Nature has done this very prettily. Quite clever with her colors, don't
you know," he drawled, plucking the down on his upper lip, for he was
trying to raise a mustache, convinced that two waxed points of hair at
each corner of his mouth would impress the hotel waiters and other
_facchini_--baseborn.

"Don't be a jackass!" Hillard was out of sorts.

"You agreed with me that I was one. Why not let me make a finished
product?" good-humoredly.

"You will have your joke."

"Yes, even at the expense of being blind in one eye; for I can't see
through this glass; positive stove-lid. Every time I focus you, you grow
as big as a house. No, I'd never be happy as a lord. Well, let us have
our last fling. You might as well let me have my letter of credit now."

"You will not set eyes upon it till we return to Genoa. That's final. I
know you, my boy, and I know Monte Carlo. Even with your fifty, a watch
and a ring, I'm afraid to trust you out of sight."

"I can see that you will never forgive nor forget--those cigars. Come
on. We'll take a look at our Italian friend. He's a bad loser. I have
seen him lose his temper, too. It's my opinion that he's a desperate
man."

"They usually are when they come to Monte Carlo."

So they walked round to the entrance to the gaming halls, where the
lights, the gowns, the jewels, the sparkling eyes, the natural beauty
and the beauty of enamel, the vague perfumes, the low murmur of voices,
the soft rustle of silks, the music of ringing gold, all combine to
produce a picture and ensemble as beautiful as a mirage and as false.
Nothing is real in Monte Carlo but the little pieces of gold and the
passion to win them. The two renewed their tickets of admission and
passed on into the famous atrium, stared a while at the news bulletin,
whereon all the important events of the day are briefly set forth, and
gazed musingly at the bats darting across the ceiling, real bats, a
sinister omen such as one sees in imaginative paintings of the Door of
Hades. At nine they joined the never-ending procession which passes in
and out of the swinging doors day after day, year after year.

The faces one sees in the Hall of Roulette! Here and there one which
will haunt the onlooker through the rest of his days. Packed about the
long tables were young faces flushed with hope or grey with despair;
middle-aged