BEFORE continuing this history, it is necessary to say a few words respecting Lola Waldershare. As Lola Hargreaves, ever lovely, seductive, and smiling, by strangers and mere acquaintances, she was looked upon as one of the most bewitching girls in the county. Her beauty, youthful graces, and charm, threw a dazzling glamour over her personality that her immediate surroundings were not blinded to her faults; her brothers recognised her selfishness; her mother was aware that her heart was hard as a nether millstone. Those who had little dealings with Miss Hargreaves learnt that she was not particularly truthful or scrupulous. The increasing straitness of the family fortunes, the struggle to make a brave display abroad, the shifts, shabbiness, and pinching, at home, the manœuvres to evade creditors, and keep up appearances, had left their mark on Lola. Poverty was hideous; humiliation was unendurable; and Lola was resolved to be rich. A short season in London had shown her the value of her beauty; her face was, and should be, her fortune; and long before Philip Gascoigne had any idea of his fate, he had been mentally discarded by his _fiancée_. Letters are deceptive, it is so much easier to deceive by pen and ink than by word of mouth. What Mrs. Danvers had declared was perfectly true; Lola had sacrificed herself—for herself. In marrying Reuben Waldershare she attained her wishes—though she would have been glad to eliminate two well-grown step-sons—and Mr. Waldershare, for his part, was well satisfied with his bargain. Unfortunately, in an evil moment he took his beautiful young wife to Monte Carlo, and there the Hargreaves' demon, the gambling demon, awoke, and seized upon her. The taint was in her blood; Lola was her father's own daughter. At first she was contented to win small sums at roulette, which she gleefully invested in hats and lace and trifling ornaments. After a week, as the poison began to work, she increased her stakes, and talked fluently of "douzaines" and "transversals" and "runs." She relinquished expeditions to Nice, or into Italy. She grudged every hour spent elsewhere than at the rooms. She had her own lucky table, her lucky charm, and, above all, her system. Like most beginners, she won largely, and Reuben Waldershare, who was obtrusively proud of his clever, elegantly dressed, smart wife, liked to see people crane over in order to watch her pretty eager face, as she sat with rolls of gold rouleaux before her, her pencil busy, her eyes ablaze. Little did he know that he had fired a mine the day he placed three hundred pounds to his wife's account at the Credit Lyonnaise, and told her half in joke, that was "a little sum to play with." Mrs. Waldershare now played incessantly—and played high. "I like to put a 'mile' note on one number," she declared with a gay laugh; "I agree with an old man who sat next me, 'Ca vous donne des emotions.'"