“Rich! Do you know where he made his money? In the cesspool of European finance. He’s a Jew by race, a German by parentage, an Italian by upbringing, and a Greek by profession. He has bucket shops and low-down money lenders’ cribs and rotten companies all over the Continent. Do you remember Sequasto & Co.? That was Bernheim. England’s too hot to hold him. Look at him now he has taken off his hat. Do you know why he wears his greasy hair plastered over half his damned forehead? It’s to hide the mark of the beast. He’s anti-Christ! And when I think of that Jezebel from the Mile-End Road putting Ottilie into his arms, it makes me see red. By heavens, it’s touch and go that I don’t slay the pair of them!” “Very likely they’re not as bad as they’re painted,” said his friend. “She couldn’t be,” Somerset retorted, grimly. Ross laughed, looked at his watch and announced that it was time for _apéritifs_. The young man assented, moodily, and they crossed the terrace to the café tables beneath the awning. It was the dying afternoon of a sultry August day, and most of Illerville had deserted tennis courts, _tir aux pigeons_ and other distractions to listen lazily to the band in the Casino shade. The place was crowded; not a table vacant. When the waiter at last brought one from the interior of the café, he dumped it down beside the table occupied by the unspeakable Bernheim and the little Princess Ottilie. Somerset raised his hat as he took his seat. Bernheim responded with elaborate politeness, and Princess Ottilie greeted him with a faint smile. The engaged pair spoke very little to each other. Bernheim lounged back in his chair, smoking a cigar, and looked out to sea with a bored expression. When the girl made a casual remark he nodded rudely without turning his head. Somerset felt an irresistible desire to kick him. His external appearance was of the type that irritated the young Englishman. He was too handsome in a hard, swaggering, black-mustachioed way; he exaggerated to offense the English style of easy dress; he wore a too devil-may-care Panama, a too obtrusive colored shirt and club tie; he wore no waistcoat, and the hems of his new flannel trousers, turned up six inches, disclosed a stretch of tan-colored silk socks, clocked with gold, matching overelegant tan shoes. He went about with a broken-spirited poodle. He was inordinately scented. Somerset glowered at him, and let his drink remain untasted. Presently Bernheim summoned the waiter, paid him for the tea the girl had been drinking, and pushed back his chair. “This hole is getting on my nerves,” he said, in French, to his companion. “I am going into the _cercle_ to play _écarté_. Will you go to your mother, whom I see over there, or will you stay here?” “I’ll stay here,” said the little Princess Ottilie. Bernheim nodded and swaggered off. Somerset bent forward. “I must see you alone to-night--quite alone. I must have you all to myself. How can you manage it?”