THE beauty of Monte Carlo has no exact parallel unless it be the beauty of the Cape Peninsula in the early spring.
The Marquis of Pelborough had never dreamt of such loveliness as he saw from his bedroom window at the “Hôtel de Paris”.
The days were sunny, and cool breezes tempered the heat of May. The season was over; many of the villas that dotted the hill-side were tenantless, and the more fashionable of the restaurants were shut. Nevertheless, though a few tables had been closed, the Casino was largely patronized, and Chick had been a fascinated spectator of play in which thousands of pounds had changed hands with every turn of the cards.
Gwenda was “resting”; a sore throat and a mild attack of influenza, which had given Chick the first clear understanding of what she meant to him,
