Mrs. Waldershare returned each winter to the Riviera as punctually as a swallow, ostensibly in search of health, but in reality to gamble continuously, extravagantly, and recklessly. She lost enormous sums; her husband's pride now changed to alarm. The husband of the lovely Mrs. Waldershare, who was winning to the envy and admiration of her neighbours, was a different being to the man who had to disburse staggering sums almost daily. Lola promised to give up gambling, and never to touch a card or back a number. Her promises were invariably broken—nothing would or could keep her away from the scene of her gains and losses. She owed huge bills in London and Paris; the money to pay these she had flung into the great gulf—she, whose luck was astonishing, was now secretly selling her jewels—and wearing paste. Mrs. Waldershare was again at Monte Carlo the year her husband died; her fascinations were irresistible. A beautiful woman, thirty years his junior, sweet, seductive, persuasive, her stolid elderly partner could not withstand her. He was suddenly called away to Paris, on urgent business, leaving Lola and her maid and many acquaintances at the Hotel de Paris, but before he departed he extracted a solemn promise from his wife that during his absence she would not enter the rooms, and this promise she vowed to keep. The first day she went over to Nice, the second day was wet, and seemingly endless, the third day something drew her into the Casino in spite of herself. The talk of her friends, of runs of colour, of great "coups," was too much for her miserable little will; something, she afterwards declared, dragged her forcibly into the Salle de Jeux. She went with a party, merely in order to look on, but in twenty minutes' time, she was seated at the "trente et quarante" with a card a pin, and a pile of gold in front of her. She won—she won again the following day, and then she lost—lost—lost all the money—lost her self-control—lost her head. She borrowed until she could borrow no longer; in the frenzy of gambling, she drew a cheque for a thousand pounds and signed it "Reuben Waldershare." All moral sense expired, as she blotted the clever imitation of her husband's signature. This money followed her other losses in one short day, and then Lola was indeed desperate. She went at sundown and walked round Monaco, and gazed thoughtfully over the wall at a spot which other despairing eyes have measured, where there is a sheer precipice, lapped by the blue-green Mediterranean. No, no—looking down always made her sick and giddy, she could _not_ do it. Life was sweet. Reuben would certainly forgive her—after all, what was his, was hers.