d gentleman. I've had the reverse of pleasure in
meeting Captain Vauvenarde, and I regret to say, though he is still
misguided, he can scarcely be termed honourable. The term 'gentleman'
has still to be accurately defined."

She made a writhing movement of impatience.

"Tell me straight out what he's doing in Algiers. You're trying to make
things easy for me. It's the way of your class. It isn't the way of
mine. I'm used to brutality. I like it better. Why did he leave the army
and why is he in Algiers?"

"If you prefer the direct method, my dear Lola," said I--and the name
came quite trippingly on my tongue--"I'll employ it. Your husband
has apparently been kicked out of the army and is now running a
gambling-hell."

She took the blow bravely; but it turned her face haggard like a
paroxysm of physical pain. After a few moments' silence, she said:

"It must have been awful for him. He was a proud man."

"He is changed," I replied gently. "Pride is too hampering a quality for
a knight of industry to keep in his equipment."

"Tell me how you met him," she said.

I rapidly sketched the whole absurd history, from my encounter with
Anastasius Papadopoulos in Marseilles to my parting with him on the
previous night. I softened down, as much as I could, the fleshiness of
Captain Vauvenarde and the rolls of fat at the back of his neck, but I
portrayed the villainous physiognomies of his associates very neatly. I
concluded by repeating my assertion that our project had proved itself
to be abortive.

"He must be pretty miserable," said Lola.

"Devil a bit," said I.

She did not answer, but settled herself more comfortably in the carriage
and relapsed into mournful silence. I, having said my say, lit a
cigarette. Save for the clanging past of an upward or downward tram,
the creeping drive up the hill through the long winding street was very
quiet; and as we mounted higher and left the shops behind, the only
sounds that broke the afternoon stillness were the driver's raucous
admonition to his horses and the wind in the trees by the wayside. At
different points the turns of the road brought to view the panorama of
the town below and the calm sweep of the bay.

"Exquisite, isn't it?" I said at last, with an indicative wave of the
hand.

"What's the good of anything being exquisite when you feel mouldy?"

"It may help to charm away the mouldiness. Beauty is eternal and
mouldiness only temporal. The sun will go on shin