She made no reply, her misanthropical philosophy prompting none. There was
rather a long silence, which he broke by asking her if she read Persian. He
excused his knowledge of it by saying that it kept him human. She laughed
and suggested a continuance of their stroll. He talked disconnectedly as
they walked up and down.

The crowd on the terrace thinned as the hour of déjeuner approached.
Presently she proclaimed her hunger. He murmured that it must be near
dinner time. She protested. He passed his hands across his eyes and
confessed that he had got mixed up in his meals the last few days. Then an
idea struck him.

"If I skip afternoon tea, and dinner, and supper, and petit déjeuner, and
have two breakfasts running," he exclaimed brightly, "I shall begin fair
again." And he laughed, not loud, but murmuringly, for the first time.

They went round the Casino to the front of the Hôtel de Paris, their
natural parting place. But there, on the steps, with legs apart, stood the
wretch with the evil eyes. He looked at her from afar, banteringly.
Defiance rose in Zora's soul. She would again show him that she was not a
lone and helpless woman at the mercy of the casual depredator.

"I'm taking you in to lunch with me, Mr. Dix. You can't refuse," she said;
and without waiting for a reply she sailed majestically past the wretch,
followed meekly by Septimus, as if she owned him body and soul.

As usual, many eyes were turned on her as she entered the restaurant--a
radiant figure in white, with black hat and black chiffon boa, and a deep
red rose in her bosom. The maître d'hôtel, in the pride of reflected glory,