which prompted his words,
it might have meant a very great deal. As it was, her contemplation
appeared to be unsatisfactory.

"I am sorry that you should lay so much stress upon so small a thing,"
she said. "You were always unreasonable. Your present request is another
instance of it. I was enjoying myself very much indeed until you came,
and now you wish to deprive me of one of my chief pleasures. I cannot
humour you."

He turned away. Even then chance might have intervened. The moment her
words had been spoken she realised a certain injustice in them, realised
a little, perhaps, the point of view of this man who was still her
husband. She watched him almost eagerly, hoping to find some sign in his
face that it was not only his stubborn pride which spoke. She failed,
however. He was one of those men who know too well how to wear the mask.

"May I ask where you are staying here?" he enquired presently.

"At the Hotel de Paris."

"It is unfortunate," he observed. "I will move my quarters to-morrow."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Monte Carlo is full of hotels," she remarked, "but it seems a pity that
you should move. The place is large enough for both of us."

"It is not long," he retorted, "since you found London itself too small.
I should be very sorry to spoil your holiday."

Her eyes seemed to dwell for a moment upon the Spanish dancer who sat at
the table opposite them, a woman whose name had once been a household
word, dethroned now, yet still insistent for notice and homage;
commanding them, even, with the wreck of her beauty and the splendour of
her clothes.

"It seems a queer place, this," she observed, "for domestic
disagreements. Let us try to avoid disputable subjects. Shall I be too
inquisitive if I ask you once more what in the name of all that is
unsuitable brought you to such a place as Monte Carlo?"

He fenced with her question. Perhaps he resented the slightly ironical
note in her tone. Perhaps there were other reasons.

"Why should I not come to Monte Carlo?" he enquired. "Parliament is not
particularly amusing when one is in opposition, and I do not hunt. The
whole world amuses itself here."

"But not you," she replied quickly. "I know you better than that, my
dear Henry. There is nothing here or in this atmosphere which could
possibly attract you for long. There is no work for you to do--work, the
very breath of your body; work, the one thing you live for and were made
for; work, you