night of Christmas Eve he lay awake; and no dreams
had ever been as half as sweet as the thoughts that came to him then. It
would have been a hideous waste of time to sleep, when he could lie
there and live over again each moment of his evening, beginning at the
beginning, when She had come into the room, and going on to the end when
he had brought her and Rosemary to the door of the Hotel Pension Beau
Soleil, to say "goodbye until to-morrow." When he came to the end, he
went back to the beginning again with renewed zest, trying to call up
some word, some look of hers which he might have neglected to count
among his treasured jewels.

Then, when he was sure that he had each pearl and ruby and diamond duly
polished and strung on the fine gold chain of loving memory, he would
let his mind run ahead of time, to the next day.

What a Christmas it was going to be! There never had been one like it
before, in the history of the world; but--the best of it was--there was
reason to hope that there would be many others to come just as
exquisite, if not more perfect.

Evelyn Clifford had loved him, even when she had let him go. She loved
him now; and she had promised to make up for the long grey years of the
past by marrying him almost at once.

There was nothing to wait for. He was lonely and rich. She was lonely
and poor. Both were young, and starving for happiness. In a week they
would be married, for she had promised to begin the New Year as his
wife. Meanwhile, there would be a great deal to do (so she said, though
he could not see why) in getting ready. But Christmas was to be a
holiday. They were going on that picnic to Eze, all three. That was
already planned; but Hugh had mentally made an addition to the plan, of
which he had said not a word.

He was as excited over the thought of this plan as Rosemary would have
been had she known. And lest there should be a hitch, or he should not
have time to accomplish all, he was out of bed by half past six--that
mysterious hour of dawn when across the glimmering sea Corsica can be
seen, floating like a heaped basket of violets in waves of transparent
gold.

Last night he had anxiously enquired of the concierge whether the Monte
Carlo shops would be open on Christmas morning, and had been informed
that they would. Otherwise, Hugh Egerton would have been capable of
battering down the doors, helping himself to the things he wanted, and
leaving enough money to pay for damages as w