Saltash laughed and went away along the deck with a monkey-like spring
that was curiously characteristic of him. There was nothing of the
sailor's steady poise about him.

The little Italian town that clung to the slopes that rose so steeply
from the sea shone among its terraced gardens like a many-coloured jewel
in the burning sunset. The dome of its Casino gleamed opalescent in its
centre--a place for wonder--a place for dreams. Yet Saltash's expression
as he landed on the quay was one of whimsical discontent. He had come
nearly a fortnight ago to be amused, but somehow the old pleasures had
lost their relish and he was only bored.

"I'm getting old," he said to himself with a grimace of disgust.

But he was not old. He was barely six-and-thirty. He had had the world at
his feet too long, that was all.

There was to be a water-side _fête_ that night at Valrosa, and the
promenade and bandstand were wreathed with flowers and fairy-lights. It
was getting late in the season, and it would probably be the last.
Saltash surveyed the preparations with very perfunctory interest as he
sauntered up to the hotel next to the Casino where he proposed to dine.

A few people he knew were staying there, and he looked forward to a more
or less social evening. At least he could count on a welcome and a rubber
of bridge if he felt so inclined. Or there was the Casino itself if the
gambling mood should take him. But he did not feel much like gambling. He
wanted something new. None of the old stale amusements appealed to him
tonight. He was feeling very ancient and rather dilapidated.