Mrs. Hazard does not take her children with her when she goes to the Riviera. She leaves them at home with her husband, who cannot often absent himself from the City, and, when he does, prefers salubrious Eastbourne to seductive Monte Carlo. He hates gambling of all kinds, he never plays cards or bets, and he rigorously avoids speculating on the Stock Exchange, although he is frequently told a “good thing” by his friends who are “in the swim.” That his wife is a gambler, therefore, is a bitter grief to him, and he watches her craving for excitement with uneasiness, but, beyond an occasional persuasive protest, he never reproaches her. He thinks she will tire of it, but it has become part of her nature—it will never be eradicated—nor does her husband quite know how far the passion for play has absorbed her, or to what extent she indulges it. As a matter of fact, it has become so necessary to her, that when she cannot manage to go to Monte Carlo, she runs over to convenient Boulogne for a day or two, and there she spends her entire time at the Casino, at the _Petits Chevaux_, and only leaves the green table to go into the baccarat room beyond, where she varies her gambling excitement. She is generally a lucky player, but even when she loses she is just as intense in her pursuit of the nervous tension of suspense while the horses are going round, or the cards are being dealt. That is what feeds her craving, not the gaining of gold, but the pulsating sense of risk and the ecstasy of expectation. [Illustration] Sometimes she takes her family during the summer months to Boulogne, since her husband can run over there every now and then, when he can tear himself from the calls of business, and his longing to see his wife and children will not be gainsaid. But does he find her playing with their little ones on the sands? No, she kisses them in the morning, and bids the nurse and governess look carefully after them, and let them enjoy themselves, and she sees no more of them that day, unless, perhaps, when she returns to the hotel to change her dress for the evening. Nevertheless, she is intensely fond of her children, and if one should have ever so slight an ailment she will be beside herself with anxiety, send for the doctor two or three times a day, and never leave the child’s bedside, while she will lavish caresses upon her. But so long as the children are well and enjoying themselves on the seashore or in the gardens, she gives no heed to them during the day, her mind being absorbed by the question whether the nine will turn up at baccarat, or else whether the horse she has put her money on will be a winning one. It is not as exciting at Boulogne as at Monte Carlo, but it is a substitute, and it helps to keep up that feverish heat her nature needs to sustain it.