“Irene!” cried Gzhatski excitedly, “never dare to say such a thing again! The insult of the suggestion is insufferable. You would have starved rather than lead a life of shame. As if I did not know you! All the pity that is wasted on fallen women is a foolish and unjustifiable pity. There is so much work to be done in the world that everyone who really tries can earn an honest living. These worthless creatures never want to work at all—they care for nothing but a lazy, comfortable, luxurious life.” Gzhatski had become flushed and excited. The unknown beauty turned round and listened with interest to this “quarrel” in a strange language. The waiter put before her a bottle of soda-water and a small glass of whisky, and went away. She swallowed the whisky in one draught, and took out an elegant gold cigarette case. Holding a cigarette between her teeth she scanned the table for matches. Finding none, she rose, and, as calmly as if approaching an acquaintance, crossed over to Gzhatski and asked him for a light. Gzhatski looked as black as thunder. Most ungraciously, he handed the matches to the unknown one, and paying no attention whatever to her “merci monsieur”—pronounced with the sweetest of smiles—he hastened to take Irene away from the Casino. “The devil!” ejaculated Gzhatski furiously, as they emerged on to the promenade. “It is positively incredible, what they have been allowed to come to, here on the Riviera. The impudence of the hussy! The shamelessness! She sees that I am with a respectable lady, and she dares!” His indignation almost suffocated him. “Well, well!” said Irene quietly, “why should you expect knowledge of the world and its ways from these unfortunates? Perhaps only yesterday she was washing linen in a laundry; where should she have learnt manners?” “She should know her place, and not forget herself,” growled Gzhatski. “But don’t let us speak of it any more. To-morrow morning I shall complain to the manager of the hotel, and if he really insists on turning his place into a bad house we shall have to find rooms elsewhere.” In the evening they went, as usual, to the gambling-rooms. There were very few people, and it was easy to get seats at the tables. Irene sat down beside the croupier, who smiled amiably as to a familiar, frequent visitor. She began to play eagerly, but luck did not come her way that evening, and she soon lost all she had with her. Raising her eyes to Gzhatski, who always made a point on these occasions of standing opposite her and looking at her reproachfully and disapprovingly, she saw, standing next to him, the daring lady of the recent incident in Nice. She had changed her attire, and wore a magnificent black evening dress, a mauve cloak, and an enormous hat with feathers. Diamonds trembled in her ears, and a row of priceless pearls encircled her neck. In the evening the paint on her face was less noticeable, and she was really so handsome that Irene gazed at her in undisguised admiration.