The three girls, chatting and laughing, walked round the base of the hill, by the road called the Rauba Capeu, to the port, where the Prince d'Auzac's trim steam yacht was lying, afterwards retracing their steps along the Boulevard du Midi. They had passed the Jardin Public, where the band was playing Strauss's _Fesche Geister_, and had just entered the Promenade des Anglais, when Zertho on his fine bay rode past them raising his hat. The trio smiled and bowed, and while he galloped along, his smart groom at some little distance behind, one of Liane's companions remarked-- "Isn't the Prince a handsome fellow? I wonder he does not marry." Liane felt her cheeks colouring. "Oh! I suppose he will very soon," observed her sister. They were both tall, dark, good-looking girls, daughters of a wealthy widow from London. This was their first season on the Riviera, and all was fresh to them. "You know the Prince well, don't you?" inquired the first girl who had spoken, turning to Liane. "Yes," she answered. "We knew him long before he became rich." "And his wealth has spoilt him, I expect? It does most men." "No, I can scarcely say that," answered Liane. "At heart he is so thoroughly cosmopolitan and so merry that I don't think he will ever become purse-proud." "I've heard he's a millionaire," observed the other girl. "Is that true?" "I believe so. His father was the wealthiest man in Luxembourg; richer even than the reigning Grand Duke Adolphe." "And whoever marries him will be Princess d'Auzac," the girl remarked, contemplatively. "Rather jolly, I should imagine, to be a Princess with an ancient title like that One could then cut a decent figure in society, I envy the fortunate girl who takes his fancy." Liane winced. She feared that her cheeks told their own tale, and was thankful when a moment later the girls met their mother amid the crowd of promenaders, and all four commenced to chat upon a different subject. That evening they did not dine as usual at the Villa Chevrier, but took their meal at the Pension, and afterwards, when Liane was reclining lazily on the couch in their private salon, her handsome head thrown back upon a great cushion of yellow silk, and the Captain was seated in a capacious easy chair, with a cigarette and an English paper, he at last braced himself up for an effort that was to him exceedingly repugnant. He feared that his words must choke him, and for half-an-hour glanced surreptitiously at her, hesitating to approach the subject. The recollection of all that he had to stake, however, goaded him on, and presently, slowly putting down his paper, and striving to remain firm, he uttered her name. She looked up from her French novel in surprise. The tone in which he spoke was entirely unusual. It was harsh and strained. "Liane," he said, bending and looking straight into her large, clear eyes, "I have wanted to speak seriously to you during these past few weeks, but have always hesitated."