His companion-chauffeur was a good deal staggered by the large quantity of cognac absorbed by his patron; but it never appeared to affect his nerves, and merely rendered him unsociable and morose. His one, all-devouring ambition was to win a race for the highest speed, and to be known as the most daring and successful motorist in Europe! When they stopped at hotels he herded with his kind--after the manner of golfers and racing people--comparing cars, speeds, weights, and prices, talking knowingly of “mushroom valves” and the “new sliding sleeve engine.” On such occasions, instead of being, as usual, somewhat stolid and glum, he became extraordinarily animated and eloquent! Masham was a man of good family, his own master, and the non-resident owner of a fine property in the north of England, which, in order to indulge his passion for speed, he neglected shamefully. Arrived at Nice, he put up at one of the fashionable hotels, running over daily to Monte Carlo, which, in the month of March, was crammed. On these expeditions, he was accompanied by his companion, and the car was garaged, whilst its owner took what he called “a turn in the rooms.” He played for high stakes, generally put down a _mille_ note, and was uncannily lucky. This good fortune he attributed to the little silver figure of a certain saint, which he clutched in one hand, whilst he staked with the other; this saint was his mascot. He never remained long in the Casino, being too impatient and restless; and when he had made a round of his favourite tables, would sally forth in search of refreshment, or to saunter about the square and the exquisite gardens. His companion did not gamble--strong as were inherited instincts, and hot as was the gambling fever which ran in his blood;--he had no money to lose, and the prize he wished to win was Aurea Morven. Naturally, Masham came across many acquaintances in such a cosmopolitan rendezvous as “Monte.” Wynyard also encountered several familiar faces, and, one afternoon, as he was passing through a great crowd at the “Café de Paris,” a light hand was laid on his arm, and, looking down, he was astonished to meet the upturned blue eyes of Mrs. Ramsay--Mrs. Ramsay in black, but no longer in weeds; Mrs. Ramsay another woman, and ten years younger; Mrs. Ramsay self-confident, prosperous, and handsome. “Why, it’s _Owen_!” she exclaimed. “Who would have thought of seeing you here?” He smiled affirmatively, and glanced at her companions round the tea-table. Ottinge was strongly represented: here were the Rector and Miss Aurea, also General and Mrs. Morven, and a smart young man in attendance on the younger lady. “Hullo, Owen!” exclaimed Mr. Morven, rising and shaking hands; “this _is_ an unexpected meeting!” and he stared with puzzled interest at the erect figure, high-bred face, unimpeachable grey suit, and Homburg hat.