"Turner," she said, "I'll soon have seen enough of Monte Carlo. I must go
to Paris. What do you think of my asking Mr. Dix to come with us?"

"I think it would be most improper, ma'am," said Turner.

"There's nothing at all improper about it," cried Zora, with a flush. "You
ought to be ashamed of yourself."




CHAPTER IV


At Monte Carlo, as all the world knows, there is an Arcade devoted to the
most humorously expensive lace, diamond and general vanity shops in the
universe, the Hôtel Métropole and Ciro's Restaurant. And Ciro's has a
terrace where there are little afternoon tea-tables covered with pink
cloths.

It was late in the afternoon, and save for a burly Englishman in white
flannels and a Panama hat, reading a magazine by the door, and Zora and
Septimus, who sat near the public gangway, the terrace was deserted.
Inside, some men lounged about the bar drinking cocktails. The red Tzigane
orchestra were already filing into the restaurant and the electric lamps
were lit. Zora and Septimus had just returned from a day's excursion to
Cannes. They were pleasantly tired and lingered over their tea in a
companionable silence. Septimus ruminated dreamily over the nauseous
entanglement of a chocolate eclair and a cigarette while Zora idly watched