" asked Lydia, putting down her cards.

"I have been arranging a novel experience for you, but I'm not so sure
that it will be as interesting as it might--it all depends upon the
state of your young heart," said Jean, pulling up a chair.

"My young heart is very healthy," laughed Lydia. "What is the
interesting experience?"

"Are you in love?" challenged Jean, searching in a big chintz bag where
she kept her handiwork for a piece of unfinished sewing. (Jean's
domesticity was always a source of wonder to Lydia.)

"In love--good heavens, no."

"So much the better," nodded Jean, "that sounds as though the experience
will be fascinating."

She waited until she had threaded the fine needle before she explained.

"If you really are not in love and you sit on the Lovers' Chair, the
name of your future husband will come to you. If you're in love, of
course, that complicates matters a little."

"But suppose I don't want to know the name of my future husband?"

"Then you're inhuman," said Jean.

"Where is this magical chair?"

"It is on the San Remo road beyond the frontier station. You've been
there, haven't you, Margaret?"

"Once," said Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, who had not been east of Cap Martin,
but whose rule it was never to admit that she had missed anything worth
seeing.

"In a wild, eerie spot," Jean went on, "and miles from any human
habitation."

"Are you going to take me?"

Jean shook her head.

"That would ruin the spell," she said solemnly. "No, my dear, if you
want that thrill, and, seriously, it is worth while, because the scenery
is the most beautiful of any along the coast, you must go alone."

Lydia nodded.

"I'll try it. Is it too far to walk?" she asked.

"Much too far," said Jean. "Mordon will drive you out. He knows the road
very well and you ought not to take anybody but an experienced driver. I
have a _permis_ for the car to pass the frontier; you will probably meet
father in San Remo--he is taking a motor-cycle trip, aren't you, daddy?"

Mr. Briggerland drew a long breath and nodded. He was beginning to
understand.

Chapter XXXIV

There was lying in Monaco harbour a long white boat with a stumpy mast,
which delighted in the name of _Jungle Queen_. It was the property of an
impecunious English nobleman who made a respectable income from letting
the vessel on hire.

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer had seemed surprised at the reasonable fee demanded
for two months' use until she had seen