iday. They were going on that picnic to Eze, all three. That was
already planned; but Hugh had mentally made an addition to the plan, of
which he had said not a word.

He was as excited over the thought of this plan as Rosemary would have
been had she known. And lest there should be a hitch, or he should not
have time to accomplish all, he was out of bed by half past six--that
mysterious hour of dawn when across the glimmering sea Corsica can be
seen, floating like a heaped basket of violets in waves of transparent
gold.

Last night he had anxiously enquired of the concierge whether the Monte
Carlo shops would be open on Christmas morning, and had been informed
that they would. Otherwise, Hugh Egerton would have been capable of
battering down the doors, helping himself to the things he wanted, and
leaving enough money to pay for damages as well as purchases.

After all, he was ready long before the shutters of those attractive
plate glass windows were taken away; but he was not sorry for that. He
had the joy of walking down to the Condamine and gazing up at other
windows far more attractive, and saying to the closed green blinds,
"Merry Christmas, merry Christmas, my darling--mine for always, now!"

Then he darted back to rolls and coffee; beamed on the waiters, gave
them fat five franc pieces merely for beaming in return; and arrived in
the Galerie Charles Trois just as the shop windows were opening radiant
Christmas eyes.

The first visit he paid was to the florist's; and to save time in
choosing he simply said, "I'll take all those things you have in the
window, please."

There were about two hundred francs worth of roses, the same of white
lilacs, and enough lilies of the valley, nestling in baby leaves of
yellow green, to clean out any save a well-filled pocket book; but that
was all the better. The more he could spend to-day, the more was Hugh
Egerton pleased. He gave "Madame Clifford's" address, and wrote
something in English on his visiting card. The flowers were to go at
once; at once, mind; not in fifteen minutes, but now, this very now.

"How much in love is that handsome young Monsieur!" thought the
Mademoiselle of the shop, with a little sigh for some of the wonders of
the world which she had missed, and must always miss. Her heels were
appallingly high, and her waist was incredibly small; but she had a
heart; and there was no heart which would not have softened to Hugh, and
wished him the best of g