“That’s quite possible, my dear Carmela,” she answered. “But one’s position might be a good deal worse than the only son of a millionaire. Old Benjamin is eccentric. I’ve met the old buffer several times. He’s addicted to my pet abomination in a man--paper collars.” “Then you’ll take Gerald as your cavalier, and allot Reggie to me?” I laughed. “Yes. I’m self-sacrificing, am I not?” She was in high spirits, for she had long ago fascinated Gerald Keppel, and now intended to make use of him as her escort to that Palace of Delight which somebody has suggested might be known by the Sign of the Seven Sins. Ulrica was a typical woman of the up-to-date type, pretty, with soft, wavy chestnut hair, and a pair of brown eyes that had attracted a host of men who had bowed down and worshipped at her shrine, yet beneath her corsets, I alone knew, there beat a heart from which, alas! all love and sympathy had long ago died out. To her, excitement, change, and flirtation were as food and drink; she could not live without them. Neither, indeed, could I, for, living with her ever since my convent days, I had imbibed her smart ideas and notions, stimulated by attacks of nerves. A few days later, having lunched with Reggie and Gerald at the Grand Hotel, we went over to Monte Carlo by the two o’clock “yellow” express. Reader, you probably know the panorama of the Riviera--that stretch of azure sky, azure sea, of golden coasts, purple hills fringed with olive and pine, rose and geranium running riot over hedge and hollow, oranges golden and flowers white upon the same branch. The pale violet of the Alps answers the violet of the valleys; white and gold marguerites spangle the hill-side where the old rock village of Eze is perched above; white and gold villas dot the wayside, and white and gold are the decoration of that Casino wherein is centred all the human vices--painted tastefully in white and gold--The Sign of the Seven Sins. When I entered for the first time that wild, turbulent, close-smelling salle-de-jeu where the croupiers were crying in those mechanical, strident tones “Messieurs, faites vos jeux!” and uttering in warning voice “Rien ne va plus!” I gazed around me bewildered. Who were those grabbing crowds of smartly dressed people grouped around the tables? Were they actually civilized beings--beings who had loved, suffered, and lived, as I had loved, suffered, and lived?