d moved away from the tables now, and were walking very slowly
down the room. The young man smiled at the girl, as he crushed up the
notes and stuffed them into his pocket. He saw that she was much
prettier than he had thought her in Paris, if he had thought of her at
all; and her dress of pale pink cloth was charming with the rose hat.
Somehow, he was glad that she was not in white--with an ermine stole.

"So it is, quite a coincidence, and a pleasant one for me, since I meet
again one who was once so kind," she said. "Especially it is good to
meet a friend--if I may call you a friend?--when one is very sad."

"Of course you may call me a friend," said he, kindly. "I'm sorry to
hear you are sad."

"That is why I told you the other meeting seemed a long time ago,"
explained the girl. "I was happy then. Now, I am breaking my heart, and
I do not know what to do. Oh, I ought not to talk like this, for after
all, you are a stranger. But you are English, or you are American; and
men of those countries never misunderstand a woman, even if she is in
trouble. We can feel ourselves safe with them."

"I'm American," he answered, "and I'm glad you feel like that. I wish I
could help you in some way." He spoke kindly, but not with absolute
warmth of sincerity. The girl saw this, and knew that he did not believe
in her as she wished him to believe, as she intended to make him
believe.

She looked up at him with sad and eloquent eyes, which softened his
heart in spite of himself. "You can't help me, thank you," she said,
"except by kind words and kind thoughts. I think, though, that it would
do me good to tell you things, if you really take an interest?"

"Of course I do." He was speaking the truth now. He was human, and she
was growing prettier, as she grew more pathetic, every moment.

"And would you advise me a little? I have nobody else to ask. My mother
and I know no one at Monte Carlo. Perhaps you would walk with me on the
terrace and let me talk?"

"Not on the terrace," he said, quickly, for he could not bear to meet
the sweet ghost of the past in the white dress and ermine stole, as he
gave advice to the flesh and blood reality of the present, in the pink
frock and roses. "What about Ciro's? Couldn't we find your mother
somewhere, and get her to chaperon us for lunch? I should think it must
be very jolly now, in the Galerie Charles Trois."

"So it would be; but my poor mother is very ill in her bed," said the
girl.