And going into the hotel, he finished his cigar in the lounge where other men were smoking, all unaware that several of them detested the sight of his handsome face and figure for no other reason than that he seemed ostensibly to be the guardian, as his mother was the chaperon, of the prettiest “girl” of that season at Davos, Diana May, and therefore nothing was more likely than that she should fall in love with him and he with her. It is always in this sort of fashion that the goose-gabble of “society” arranges persons and events to its own satisfaction, never realising that being only geese they cannot see beyond the circle of their own restricted farmyard. CHAPTER XVII It was quite the end of the season at Davos before Dimitrius quitted it and took his mother and Diana on to the Riviera. Here, in the warm sunshine of the early Southern spring he began to study with keener and closer interest the progress of his “subject,” whose manner towards him and general bearing became more and more perplexing as time went on. She was perfectly docile and amiable,--cheerful and full of thoughtful care and attention for Madame Dimitrius,--and every fortnight took his mysterious “potion” in his presence without hesitation or question, so that he had nothing to complain of--but there was a new individuality about her which held her aloof in a way that he was at a loss to account for. Wherever she went she was admired,--men stared, talked and sought introductions, and she received all the social attention of an acknowledged “belle” without seeking or desiring it. One evening at a hotel in Cannes she was somewhat perturbed by seeing a portly elderly man whom she recognised as a club friend of her father’s, and one who had been a frequent week-end visitor at Rose Lea. She hoped he would not hear her name, but she was too much the observed of all observers to escape notice, and it was with some trepidation that she saw him coming towards her with the rolling gait suggestive of life-long whisky-sodas--a “man-about-town” manner she knew and detested. “Pardon me!” he said, with an openly admiring glance, “but I have just been wondering whether you are any relation of some friends of mine in England named May. Curiously enough, they had a daughter called Diana.” “Really!” And Diana smiled--a little cold, haughty smile which was becoming habitual with her. “I’m afraid I cannot claim the honour of their acquaintance!” She spoke in a purposely repellent manner, whereat the bold intruder was rendered awkward and abashed. “I know I should not address you without an introduction,” he said stammeringly. “I hope you will excuse me! But my old friend Polly----” “Your old friend--what?” drawled Diana, carelessly, unfurling a fan and waving it idly to and fro. “Polly--we call him Polly for fun,” he explained. “His full name is James Polydore May. And his daughter, Diana, was drowned last summer--drowned while bathing.”