“I’m not over here to gamble,” he continued. “We are at Mentone, and I’ve come to have a look at this pretty, wicked place.” “It’s pretty wicked by all accounts!” replied Wynyard, speaking now, as Mr. Morven noted, in the tone of equal to equal. “Aurea,” he said, turning to his daughter, “don’t you see Owen?” Miss Morven--who had entirely regained her beauty, and was charmingly dressed--glanced up from underneath her immense rose-wreathed hat, and coolly surveyed her former lover. She was, if possible, prettier than ever, he said to himself, as he doffed his hat in acknowledgment of her curt nod; but her eyes, as they met his, resembled two dark pools--frozen. For some unknown and unguessed-at reason, Aurea was no longer friendly to him--much less anything nearer--and the discovery seemed to plant a dagger in his throat. He found it desperately difficult to utter a word, much less to carry on a brisk conversation with the Rector and Mrs. Ramsay. General and Mrs. Morven were, he concluded, the important elderly couple who sat at the other side of the table, and the young man, who was engrossing Miss Morven’s sole attention, was some idle ass, who wore his hair parted in the middle, and three rings on his left hand. He hated him then and there! Meanwhile, Miss Morven encouraged him, and kept up a conversation in low, confidential tones. Her hat concealed her face, and Wynyard realised, for the first time in his life, how rude a hat could be! This black hat, garlanded with pink flowers, was but too eloquently expressive of the fact, that its wearer desired to ignore the existence--much less the presence--of her aunts’ late employé. However, the Rector and Mrs. Ramsay were most anxiously disposed to make amends for Miss Morven’s detachment. “What do you think of the gardens?” inquired the former, indicating the flower-beds that lay between them and the Casino--a blaze of velvet violas. “Quite in your line, eh?” Wynyard muttered an inarticulate assent--all his thoughts were concentrated on Aurea. “I’m glad to see you are getting on,” resumed the Rector cheerily; “prospects improving, eh?” “I’m afraid not,” answered the chauffeur; his mind full of this gentleman’s only daughter, and the haughty little face which was so studiously concealed. “What are you doing now, eh?” “I’m with Masham, a man who has a racing motor, as useful companion.” “Oh, by Jove, I know him!” broke in the General. “Masham’s the wildest driver in England, or, indeed, Europe--a racing lunatic--wish you safely out of his company! Is he here?” “Yes, in the rooms; and I’m just loafing about till he is ready to go back to Nice.” “You have never asked about poor dear little Ottinge,” interposed Mrs. Ramsay, with an injured air,--Mrs. Ramsay who had hitherto been a silent and much interested spectator of Wynyard and Aurea. What _was_ the matter with the girl? “And how is Ottinge?” he inquired, turning to the Rector.