After the fight with confetti, during which our hair and dominoes got sadly tumbled, we struggled through the crowd to the hotel, and while Gerald went along to the café outside the Casino to wait for us we dressed. Quite a host of people dined at the Villa Fabron that evening, including several pretty English girls. A millionaire never lacks friends. Old Benjamin Keppel was something of a recluse, and it was not often that he sent out so many invitations, but when he gave a dinner he spared no expense, and that in honor of Carnival was truly a gastronomic marvel. The table was decorated with mauve and old gold, the Carnival colors, and the room, draped with satin of the same shades, presented a mass of blended hues particularly striking. The old millionaire headed the table, and in his breezy, open-hearted manner made everyone happy at once. Both Ulrica and I wore new frocks, which we considered were the latest triumphs of our Nice couturière,--they certainly ought to have been if they were not, for their cost was ruinous,--and there were also quite a number of bright dresses and good-looking men. As I sat there amid the gay chatter of the table I looked at the spare, gray-bearded man at its head and fell into reflection. How strange it was that this man, worth more millions than he could count upon his fingers, actually toiled in secret each day at his lathe to earn a few shillings a week from an English firm as pocket-money. All his gay friends who sat around his table were ignorant of that fact. He only revealed it to those in whom he placed trust, and I was one of the latter. After dinner we all went forth into the gardens, which were illuminated everywhere with colored lights and lanterns, wandering beneath the orange-trees, joking and chattering. A rather insipid young prig was at first my companion, but presently I found myself beside old Mr. Keppel, who walked at my side far down the hill until we came to the dark belt of olives which formed the boundary of his domain. Villas on the Riviera do not usually possess extensive grounds, but the Villa Fabron was an exception, for the gardens ran right down almost to that well-known white sea-road that leads along from Nice to the mouth of the Var. “How charming!” I exclaimed, as, turning back, we gazed upon the long terrace hung with Japanese lanterns, and the moving figures, smoking, taking their coffee, and chattering. “Yes,” the old man laughed. “I have to be polite to them now and then, but after all, Miss Rosselli, they don’t come here to visit me, only to spend a pleasant evening. Society expects me to entertain, so I have to. But I confess that I never feel at home among all these folks, as Gerald does.” “I fear you are becoming just a little world-weary,” I said, smiling. “Becoming! Why, I was tired of it all years ago,” he answered, glancing at me with a serious expression in his deep-set eyes. It seemed as though he wished to confide in me, and yet dared not do so.