an serve,"
I said, meanly shifting responsibility. "Not too long a dinner,
but--oh well, you may tell the chef I depend upon his choice."

"I quite understand, Monsieur. A dinner to please a lady, is it not?"

"Yes. Something to please a lady." Was there not the Boy's sister to
be catered for in case she should come? In thinking of him I must not
forget her. But then, how improbable it was that my poor dinner would
be tasted by either!

"And for wine, Monsieur?"

I ordered at random the brand of champagne which had seemed like
nectar to the Boy and me that evening in far away Aosta, when the
compact of our friendship was first made. But yes, certainly, it was
to be had. And it should in an all little moment be on the ice.

The waiter glided away to make that little moment less, and I was left
to measure it and its brothers. One after another they passed. What a
pity the moment family is such a large one! I stared at the glass
door. Other men's friends came in by it, but not mine. I glared at
the window close to which I sat. The peculiarly theatrical effect of
daylight melting into night, as seen at Monte Carlo and nowhere else,
added to the sensation of suspense I felt, as when the curtain is
about to rise on the crowning act of an exciting play.

The scene out there in the Place was exactly like a setting for the
stage. The great white Casino, with the constant _va et vient_ to and
from the open doorway; the bubbly domes of the fantastically Moorish
cafe across the way; the velvet grass, unnaturally green in the
electric light; the flower beds in the garden a mosaic floor of
coloured jewels; the air blue as a gauze veil, with diamonds shining
through its meshes; and over all a serene arch of hyacinth sky,
pulsing with smouldering ashes-of-rose just above the purple line of
mountain-tops.

A carriage drove quickly past the window, and stopped, far on at the
main door of the hotel. More people for dinner; but not the Boy. I
indistinctly saw a tall man and two ladies in long evening cloaks step
out; then I turned my eyes elsewhere.

Over on the brightly lighted balcony of the Cafe de Paris opposite,
the "out-of-season" musicians were playing "Sole Mio," and the
yearning strains of that simple, hackneyed Italian love song stirred
my veins oddly.

The glass door down at the other end of the room opened, and the
movement there caught my eyes. A girl came in, alone, and stood still
as if looking for someone--her s