At the station his wife and father-in-law were looking impatiently for
his arrival. They stood at the door of their _wagon-lit_ in the Côte
d'Azur Rapide, searching the crowded platform for him. It was now ten to
eight, and the express was timed to pull out of the Gare de Lyon at
eight o'clock sharp.

"Late again!" growled Sir Francis Letchmere. "Clifford makes a deuced
casual sort of husband. Bad form, you know!"

Good form and bad form were the foot-rules by which he measured mankind.

Olive bit her lip. It galled her pride that Clifford should not be
early on the platform to see to her comforts. The attentions of her
father and maid did not satisfy her; she wanted Clifford to be there to
fetch and carry for her.

Pride was the keynote of her character. It was pride and not love that
had decided her, five years before, to marry the financier. She had
admired the way in which he had slashed out for himself his place in the
world of London and Paris finance, from his humble beginning as a clerk
in a Montreal broker's office. It ministered to her pride to be the wife
of a man who had plucked success from the whirlpool of life. As to the
methods by which he had amassed his money, with these she was not
concerned. She knew, of course, that there were many who had bitter
things to say about his methods.

"Probably it's his brother who's delayed him," said Olive, looking for
an explanation which would salve her _amour propre_. "They both seem to
be crazy over their rubbishy scientific experiments."