XXIII


When Peter rose next morning, he pulled a grimace at the
departed night.

"You are a detected cheat," he cried, "an unmasked impostor.
You live upon your reputation as a counsellor--'tis the only
reason why we bear with you. La nuit porte conseil! Yet what
counsel have you brought to me?--and I at the pass where my
need is uttermost. Shall I go to her this afternoon, and
unburden my soul--or shall I not? You have left me where you
found me--in the same fine, free, and liberal state of
vacillation. Discredited oracle!"

He was standing before his dressing-table, brushing his hair.
The image in the glass frowned back at him. Then something
struck him.

"At all events, we'll go this morning to Spiaggia, and have our
hair cut," he resolved.

So he walked to the village, and caught the ten o'clock omnibus
for Spiaggia. And after he had had his hair cut, he went to
the Hotel de Russie, and lunched in the garden. And after
luncheon, of course, he entered the grounds of the Casino, and
strolled backwards and forwards, one of a merry procession, on