* * * * *

August had almost spent itself, and Aholibah remained in the arid and
flavourless town. Her intimate friends had weeks earlier gone to
Trouville, to Dinard, to Ostende, to Hombourg, even as far as Brighton;
but she lingered, seemingly from perversity. She came regularly to the
café about eleven, always in company with her Prince, and was untiringly
served by Ambroise. He was rewarded for his fidelity with many valuable
tips and latterly with gifts--for on being questioned he was forced to
admit that gratuities had to be shared with the other waiters. He was so
amiable, his smile so winning, his admiration so virginal, that
Aholibah kept him near her. Her Prince drank, sulked, or grumbled as
much as ever. He was bored by the general heat and the dulness, yet made
no effort to escape either. One night they entered after twelve o'clock.
Aholibah was in vicious humour and snapped at her garçon. Dog-like he
waited upon her, an humble, devoted helot. He overheard her say to her
companion that she must have lost the purse at the Folies-Bergères.

"Well, go to the Rue de la Paix to-morrow and buy another," was the
reply.

"I can't replace that purse. Besides, it was a prized gift--"

"From your sainted mother in heaven!" he sneered.

Ambroise saw the windows of her eyes close with a snap, and he moved
away, fearing to be present in the surely impending quarrel. He
remembered the purse. It was a long gold affair, its tiny links crusted
with precious pearls--emeralds, rubies, diamonds. And the top he saw