d go into the Casino; for
he was sure to be in one place or the other at this time of day, even
though it was Christmas.

[Illustration: _They came nearer, near enough for Mademoiselle to
recognise the man with them_]

She walked a little, but not much; for her high-heeled shoes were tight,
and made her feel even more annoyed with the world and everyone in
it--except herself--than she had been before she started. Presently she
sat down on one of the green benches, and arranged a "peace on earth,
goodwill to men" expression which pinched her lips almost as painfully
as her shoes pinched her toes. She wore it unremittingly, nevertheless,
even though many of the women who passed her, walking on the
terrace, were prettier and younger and better dressed than she,
and--more grievous still--were accompanied by agreeable looking men,
while she sat alone scarcely glanced at by the promenaders.

She had just begun to think that she had better try the Casino, when
down the steps from the upper terrace came three figures. There was
something familiar about them all, but to see them together made them
more than strange. Besides, the two she knew best were strange in
another way. Their habit was to be shabby, though neat; now, there was
no one on the terrace as beautifully dressed as this tall young woman
and the slim little girl. No, it couldn't be Madame Clifford and her
_petit choux_; and yet--and yet--as they came nearer, near enough for
Mademoiselle to recognise the man with them, she felt a horrid
sensation as if something which she called her heart were dropping out
of her bosom from sheer heaviness, leaving a vacuum.

Hardly knowing what she did, she sprang up from her bench while they
were still far off, and began walking towards them. There was a queer,
singing noise in her head, and a feeling as if the skin were too tightly
stretched across her forehead. Still, she smiled, and winked her long
lashes to keep her eyes moist and soft.

The sun was on Evelyn Clifford's hair, burnishing it to a halo of gold
under the white hat. She looked radiantly beautiful, and as happy as if
her soul were singing a Christmas Carol. On the face of Hugh Egerton was
a look which no woman could mistake, least of all such a woman as Julie
de Lavalette; and it was not for her, never would be for her.

Now she knew why her expected guest had not come last night, or
remembered to send an excuse. Sick with jealousy and spite, she bowed as
she