in time. Couleur lost; inverse won.

"Oh, I'm so glad," said the owner of the pretty face. She spoke English
with a slight, but bewitching foreign accent; and her eyes shone at him
like brown jewels under the tilted brim of a hat made all of pink and
crimson roses. She was rather like a rose, too, a rich, colourful, spicy
rose, of the kind which unfolds early. He knew that he had seen her
before, and wondered where.

After all, it was rather nice to be spoken to by someone other than a
hotel manager or a waiter; someone who was good to look at, and
friendly. He lost interest in the game, and gained interest in the girl.

"Thank you," said he. "You've brought me luck."

"I hope you don't think I speak always to strangers, like that," said
the girl in the rose hat. "But you see, I recognized you at once. I
don't know if you remember me? No, I'm afraid you don't."

"Of course I remember you, only I can't think where we--"

"Why, it was in Paris. You saved my mother's little dog from being run
over one day. We were both so grateful. Afterwards we saw you once or
twice at tea at the Ritz, and you took off your hat, so you must have
remembered then. Ah me, it's a long time ago!"

"Not so very," said the young man. "I remember well, now." (He wished
her mother had not been quite such an appalling person, fat and
painted.) "It was only last October. I'd just come to Paris. It was my
first day there, when I picked up the little dog. Now, on my first day