The gay season at Monte had reached high water, and he daily came across acquaintances. Lounging one morning against the parapet below the Casino with Colonel Roland--a man who belonged to his club--they idly watched the gay world go by. Here were men and women of all nations, and reputations; the most famous names in Europe were pacing that sunny promenade. The two noted and remarked on various familiar faces--princesses, duchesses, dancers, statesmen, actors, authors, and flocks of ordinary, and extraordinary, birds of passage. “Full-dress parade,” said Roland, chucking away the end of an excellent cigar. “They are all very well--fine feathers make fine birds!--but if you ask _me_, there isn’t a woman here can touch that little Miss What’s-her-name that was at the Brakesby Hunt Ball; she could give every one of ’em a stone and a beating. Yes”--with a nudge--“and I saw _you_ dancing with her, you dog! Oh, you have an eye in your head, and know what’s what. Of course, she is very young, and does not realise her own value, yet--but if she had half a chance, her beauty would be--be--” casting about for a simile, “famous, the talk of England!” Blagdon looked hard at his friend, and drawled indifferently-- “Think so?” “_Sure_; and now I’m off to golf. Ta, ta; see you at dinner!” and he walked away. Blagdon remained; he selected and lit another cigar, and settled himself to meditate. Roland was a good judge; he had knocked about a bit. But the girl as he had last seen her! “That,” argued common sense, “was merely the shabby dress and shoes that had choked him off. Yes, and her cold red hands. All her aunt’s fault--stingy old devil! At the ball, she was well turned out--and what a difference! And, by George! he could afford to dress his wife properly. A beauty that would be famous, Mrs. Hugo Blagdon--!”