Ottilie looked at him anxiously. She was fair and innocent, of a prettiness more English than foreign, and the scare in her blue eyes made them all the more appealing to the young man. “What is the good? You can’t help me. Don’t you see that it is all arranged?” “I’ll undertake to disarrange it at a moment’s notice,” said Somerset. “Hush!” she whispered, glancing round. “Somebody will hear. Everything is gossiped about in this place.” “Well, will you meet me?” the young man persisted. “If I can,” she sighed. “If they are both playing baccarat, I may slip out for a little.” “As at Spa.” She smiled, and a slight flush came into her cheeks. “Yes, as at Spa. Wait for me on the _plage_ at the bottom of the Casino steps. Now I must go to my mother. She would not like to see me talking to you.” “The princess hates me like poison. Do you know why?” “No, and you are not going to tell me,” she said, demurely. “_Au revoir._” When she had passed out of earshot, Ross touched the young man’s arm. “I’m afraid, my dear Somerset, you are playing a particularly silly fool’s game.” “Have you never played it?” “Heaven forbid!” “It would be a precious sight better for you if you had,” growled Somerset. “I’ll take another _quinquina_,” said Ross. “Did you see the way in which the brute treated her?” Somerset exclaimed, angrily. “If it’s like that before marriage, what will it be after?” “Plenty of money, separate establishments, perfect independence and happiness for each.” Somerset rose from the table. “There are times, my good Ross,” said he, “when I absolutely hate you.” * * * * *