by side." He flicked a long burnt ash from his cigar. "I've had a
bit of comedy with you this morning--now I'm going to take up
tragedy! I tell you there's more written in Jack's dead face than in
all Dante!"

"The tragedy of a lost gamble for money!" she said, with a scornful
uplift of her eyebrows.

He nodded.

"That's so! It upsets the mental balance of a man more than a lost
gamble for love!"

And he walked away.

Lydia Herbert, left to herself, played idly with the leaves of the
vine that clambered about the high wooden columns of the verandah
where she stood, admiring the sparkle of her diamond bangle which,
like a thin circlet of dewdrops, glittered on her slim wrist. Now
and then she looked far out to the sea gleaming in the burning sun,
and allowed her thoughts to wander from herself and her elegant
clothes to some of the social incidents in which she had taken part
during the past couple of months. She recalled the magnificent ball
given by Morgana Royal at her regal home, when all the fashion and
frivolity of the noted "Four Hundred" were assembled, and when the
one whispered topic of conversation among gossips was the
possibility of the marriage of one of the richest women in the world
to a shabbily clothed scientist without a penny, save what he earned
with considerable difficulty. Morgana herself played the part of an
enigma. She laughed, shook her head, and moved her daintily attired