How beautiful it was outside in that gay little Place with the red Hungarian band playing on the terrace of the Café de Paris, and half the grande monde of Europe lounging about and chattering. How enchanting was the grim Dog’s Head as a fitting background in dark purple against the winter sunset, the old bronze Grimaldi rock rising sheer from the turquoise sea surmounted by the white tower of Monaco and the castellated walls of the Palace; to the right Villefranche and San Juan shining in topaz and amber,--the Esterels as a necklace of radiant jewels,--while to the left Bordighera was lying at the base of its neck, like a pearl at a fair throat. And beyond there was Italy--my own fair Italy! Out in that flower-scented, limpid air earth was a paradise; within those stifling gilt saloons, where the light of day was tempered by the thick curtains and the clink of gold mingled with the dull hum of the avaricious crowd, it was a veritable hell. Some years ago--ah! now I am looking back: Ulrica is not at fault this time. No, I must not think. I have promised myself in writing this narrative not to think, but to try and forget all past unhappiness. Try. Ah! would that I could calm my soul--steep it in a draught of thoughtlessness, such that oblivion would come. It is terrible to think how a woman can suffer and yet live. What a blessing it is that the world cannot read a woman’s heart! Men may look upon our faces, but they cannot read the truth. Even though our hearts may be breaking we may wear a smile; we can fold our sorrows as a bird folds its wings, for they are part of our physical being; we can hide our grief so completely that none can know the burden upon us. Endurance, resistance, patience, suffering, all are, alas! a woman’s heritage. Even in the few years I have lived I have had my share of them all. I stood bewildered, watching the revolving red and black roulette-wheel and the eager crowd of faces around it. “Vingt! Rouge, pair et passé!” the croupier cried, and a couple of louis which Ulrica had placed on the last dozen were swept away with the silver, notes, and gold to swell the bank. I thought of my secret grief. I thought of Ernest Cameron and pursed my lips. The old Tuscan proverb which the nuns in Florence had taught me so long ago was very true, Amore non è senza amaro. The millionaire’s son at my elbow was explaining to me how the game was played, but I was paying no attention. I only remembered the man I had once loved--the man whose slave I was--the man whom I had forgiven, even though he had left me so cruelly. Only three things could make life to me worth living--the sight of his face, the sound of his voice, the touch of his lips. But they could never be, alas! we were parted for ever--for ever. “Now, play this time,” I heard Reggie beside me exclaim. “Where?” I inquired mechanically, his voice awakening me to a sense of my surroundings. “On the line, there--between the numbers 9 and 12.”