Gzhatski, though he was standing next to the woman who had so recently infuriated him, did not see her, his attention being riveted on a very original gambler, who was sitting at the end of the table. This was a wrinkled little old man, with a face as yellow as parchment. Before him, on the table, lay a pile of gold, which he was staking to right and to left, without any sort of system, apparently simply putting the coins in the spaces most easily accessible to his rheumatic hands. Strangely enough he nearly always won, and other players began to put their stakes on his numbers. Feeling Irene’s glance upon him, Gzhatski smiled at her tenderly; but noticing that she was actually looking not at him, but at someone beside him, he turned his head, and his eyes met those of the unknown beauty. Gzhatski flushed, frowned, and turned away from the table. Irene rose, and they both left the gaming-room, and descended into the gardens. Having taken a few steps towards the hotel, Gzhatski suddenly stopped short and exclaimed: “What a pity to go and shut ourselves up in that horrid hotel. It is only eleven o’clock. Let us go and have supper somewhere.” Irene looked at Gzhatski in astonishment. Only the previous day he had been loud in his praises of the hotel, of its comfort and its beautiful views, and its proximity to the park. Why did he suddenly find it horrid? However, having accustomed herself never to contradict him, Irene made no objection, and they turned to the Café de Paris. The sound of fashionable valses and familiar operatic melodies floated across the still air from the brilliantly illuminated covered terrace. Quite a number of people sat at the little round tables, the usual heterogeneous Monte Carlo crowd. There were correct Englishmen in smoking-jackets; there were Germans who had missed their last train back to Menton, and were having supper in company with their fat wives, the latter dressed in hideous canary-coloured blouses, their hats all askew. There were also pretty and theatrically “done-up” young ladies in full evening dress, coming in with an air of boredom, throwing off their wraps with studied negligence, and indifferently perusing the menu. These were professional gamblers, of whom the French say, “qu’elles ne sont pas fixées,” and their young faces bore the stamp of that surfeit of luxury and laziness that had long ago robbed their lives of all interest and charm.