The advantage was distinctly with Grant. His air of hurt reticence was admirably assumed. It chanced that, at the moment of leaving the yacht, Gertrude had confided to him that she had a headache and was going to bed immediately on her return to the hotel.

“My congratulations upon your speedy recovery,” he murmured.

She was mistress of herself at once. She raised her eyebrows very slightly.

“Oh, my headache,” she remarked. “A hot bath and an aspirin disposed of that. Mr. Lymane was a perfect dear and called just as I was wondering whether I should get up and try my luck at the Club, or go to bed. He suggested some supper and a dance here. I am so glad I came. I love this place, and I haven’t been here this season. And you? Where are your friends?”

“I came here with the very interesting young man whom I met on the tennis courts,” Grant replied. “They tell me that he plays tennis like a pro. Harris, our new secretary, says that he could give me fifteen and owe fifteen. In the other walks of life he is to be taken a little differently. His name is Itash and he is, I understand, devoted to the little danseuse who sits at this table.”

The smile had faded from Gertrude’s lips. She was looking into Grant’s face as though her eyes would bore their way into the back of his brain.

“I should not have thought that a party of three would be very amusing for you,” she remarked.

“The little danseuse is only a temporary addition,” Grant explained. “I am certainly not making my host jealous, for he takes his protegee away whenever he chooses, and he insisted upon my coming. Still the position is not without its embarrassments. I am seriously thinking of cultivating one of these ladies for myself. There is a divine being opposite, with vermilion-coloured hair and eyes of the most enchanting shade of blue, I think I had better throw myself upon her mercy.”

“Come and sit with us,” Gertrude invited shortly.

“Not on any account,” was the firm refusal. “I am already a troisième here. When I leave it will not be to accept a similar place elsewhere. Go and choose your table, you two. I am hurt, but not offended. I will even come and pay my respects later on. But at present, when my friends here have returned, I have an unconquerable desire to introduce myself to the young person with vermilion hair.”

“What shall you say to her?” Gertrude asked.

“I shall say,” he confided, “‘Mademoiselle, I have these few recommendations to your favour. I am an American, as you see me, a millionaire, with a yacht in the harbour and a cheque book which I too seldom use. May I have the pleasure of this dance?’”

“It sounds interesting,” Gertrude admitted. “She will probably refuse you. She will think you have drunk too much wine. Such good fortune would be incredible.”

He rose to his feet.

“That remains to be seen,” he said, taking leave of them with a little bow.

They watched him approach the girl whom he had pointed out, watched her rise with alacrity to her feet, and the commencement of the dance. Gertrude bit her lip as she followed Lymane to a table.

“Monte Carlo,” she observed coldly, “is too small a place for these enterprises.”

“Life is too short an affair to take notice of them,” Lymane rejoined.

They chose their table, ordered wine and danced. Lymane murmured all the time in his companion’s ear. Gertrude sometimes listened, sometimes watched the danseuse with the red hair. She seemed to be interested in Itash, but her eyes seldom left Grant and his partner.

“I wonder whether it is my fancy,” she confided to her escort, as they sat down presently, “but it seems to me—I suppose it is because of this Nice Conference going on so near—that there is an electrical atmosphere everywhere. I feel as though there were rumblings underneath the earth, as though we were on the brink, all the time, of portentous events.”

He smiled indulgently, yet in a slightly superior fashion.

“I don’t think that you need be afraid,” he said. “I think I can assure you that there are no cataclysms imminent at the moment.”

“How can you tell?” she asked.

“Well,” he pointed out, “for one thing, England, France, Germany, Japan, Italy, Spain, and a few of the smaller powers are linked hand in hand to preserve the peace of the world. There is no sign of war, no threat of war anywhere. We are all a little jealous of Germany, but industrially she deserves her success. Now, tell me, what form of cataclysm could descend upon the earth to justify your depression?”

“I think,” she sighed, sipping her champagne, “that I am afraid of the end of the world.”

“The end of the world,” he observed, “is but a picturesque fable. The scientists have the matter well in hand. We are likely to have at least a thousand years of warning. My own apprehensions do not extend thus far.”

She looked through the menu, which a hovering waiter had handed to her.

“Notwithstanding our wonderful dinner,” she decided, “I should like a sandwich. And as it is not the end of the world which is coming and I honestly don’t believe I have indigestion, will you tell me why I am so depressed?”

“I can only suggest,” he ventured politely, “that it is because of your husband’s arrival to............