year, and enjoyed it immensely. We—we had such a time!" She giggled loudly. "How long are you gentlemen remaining?"

"Mr. Turquand is 'deserting' to-morrow," he said. "I? Oh, I shall have to leave in about a week, I'm afraid."

"You said that a week ago," murmured Miss Walford.

"I like the place," he confessed; "I find it very pleasant, myself."

Mrs. Walford threw up her hands with a scream of expostulation. Her face was elderly, despite her attentions to it, but in her manner she was often a great deal more youthful than her daughter; indeed, while the girl had already acquired something of the serenity of a woman, the woman was superficially reverting to the artlessness of a girl.

"What is there to like? Dieppe is the Casino, and the Casino is Dieppe!"

"But the Casino is very agreeable," he said, his glance wandering from her.

"And the charges are perfectly monstrous. Though, of course, you extravagant young men don't mind that!"

"A friend might call me young," said Turquand gloomily; "my worst enemy couldn't call me extravagant."

"Oh, I mind some of the charges," returned Kent. "I hate being 'done.'"

She was pleased to hear him say so. Her chief requirement of a young man was that he should be well provided for, but if he had the good feeling to exercise a nice economy till he became engaged, it was an additional recommendation. Her giggle was as violent as before, though.

"Oh, I daresay!" she exclaimed facetiously; "I'm always being taken in; I don't believe those stories any longer. Do you remember Willy Holmes, Cynthia, and the tales he used to tell me? I used to think that young man was so steady, I was always quoting him! And it turned out he was a regular scapegrace and everybody knew it all the time, and had been laughing at me. I've given up believing in any one, Mr. Kent—in anyone, do you hear?" She shook the splendours of her hat at him, and gasped and gurgled archly. "I've no doubt you're every bit as bad as the rest!"

He answered with some inanity. Miss Walford asked him a question, and he took a seat beside her in replying. Turquand sat down too. Twilight was falling, and a refreshing breeze began to make itself felt. A fashionable sea purled on the sand below with elegant decorum. In the building the concert commenced, and snatches of orchestration reached them through the chatter of American and English and French from the occupants of the chairs behind. Presently Mrs. Walford wanted to go and play petits chevaux. The sub-editor, involuntarily attached to the party, accompanied her, and Kent and the girl followed. The crowd round the tables was fairly large, but Turquand prevailed on the dame to see that there was space for four persons in a group. She complimented him on his dexterity, but immediately afterwards became "fatigued," and begged him to take her to the "settee in the corner." The party was now divided into couples.

CHAPTER II

He had appreciated the manoeuvres sufficiently to feel no surprise when she found the room "stifling" ten minutes later and said that she must return to the terrace. She had shown such small desire for his companionship hitherto, however, that he was momentarily uncertain which tête-à-tête was the one that she was anxious to prolong.

"Pouf!" she exclaimed, as they emerged into the air. "It was unbearable. Where are the others? Didn't they come out too?"

"They have no idea we've gone," said Turquand dryly.

She was greatly astonished; she had to turn before she could credit it.

"I thought they were behind us," she repeated several times. "I'm sure they saw us move. Oh, well, they'll find it out in a minute, I expect! Never mind!"

They strolled up and down.

"Sorry you're going, Mr. Turquand? Your friend will miss you very much."

"I don't think so," he answered. "He knew I was only running over for a few days."

"He tells me it is the first holiday he has taken for years," she said. "His profession seems to engross him. I suppose it is an engrossing one. But he oughtn't to exhaust his strength. I needn't ask you if you've read his novel. What do you think of it?"

"I think it extremely clever work," said Turquand.

"And it's been a great success, too, eh? 'One of the books of the year,' The Times called it."

"It has certainly given him a literary position."

"How splendid!" she said. "Yes, that's what I thought it: 'extremely clever,' brilliant—most brilliant! His parents must be very proud of him?"

"They're dead," said Turquand.

Mrs. Walford was surprised again. She had "somehow taken it for granted that they were living," and as she understood that he had no brothers or sisters, it must be very lonely for him?

"He sees a good deal of me" said her escort, "and I'm quite a festive sort of person when you know me."

Her giggle announced that she found this entertaining, but the approval did not loosen his tongue. She fanned herself strenuously, and decided that, besides being untidy, he was dense.

"Of course, in one way," she pursued, "his condition is an advantage to him. Literary people have to work so hard if they depend on their writing, don't they?"

"I do," he assented, "I'm sorry to say."

His constant obtrusion of himself into the matter annoyed her very much. She had neither inquired nor cared if he worked hard, and she felt disposed to say so. Turquand, who realised now why honours had been thrust upon him this evening, regretted that loyalty to Kent prevented his doing him what he felt would be the greatest service that could be rendered and removing the temptation of the mauve girl permanently from his path.

"With talent and private means our author is fortunate?"

"I often tell him so," he said.

"If it doesn't tempt him to rest on his oars," she added delightedly. "Wealth has its dangers. Young men will be young men!"

"'Wealth' is a big word," said he. "Kent certainly can't be called 'wealthy.'"

"But he doesn't depend on his pen?" she cried with painful carelessness.

"He has some private means, I believe; in fact, I know it."

"I am so glad—so glad for him. Now I have no misgivings about his future at all.... Have you?"

"I'm not sure that I follow you."

She played with her fan airily.

"He is certain to succeed, I mean; he needn't fear anything, as he has a competence. Oh, I know what these professions are," she went on, laughing. "My son is in the artistic world, we are quite behind the scenes. I know how hard-up some of the biggest professionals are when they have nothing but their profession to depend on. A profession is so precarious—shocking—even when one has aptitude for it."

"Kent has more than 'aptitude,'" he said. "He has power. Perhaps he'll always work too much for himself and the reviewers to attract the widest public. Perhaps he's a trifle inclined to over-do the analytical element in his stuff; but that's the worst that can be said. And, then, it's a question of taste. For myself, I'm a believer, in the introspective school, and I think his method's It."

"Schools" and "methods" were meaningless to the lady in such a connection. Novels were novels, and they were either "good" or they were "rubbish," if she understood anything about them—and she had read them all her life. She looked perplexed, and reiterated the phrase that she had already used.

"Oh, extremely clever, brilliant—most brilliant, really! I quite agree with you."

"Your son writes, did you say, Mrs. Walford?"

"Oh no, not writes—no! No, my son sings. He sings. He is studying for the operatic stage." Her tone couldn't have been more impressive if she had said he was de Reszke. "His voice is quite magnificent."

"Really!" he replied with interest. "That's a great gift—a voice."

"He is 'coming out' soon," she said. "He—er—could get an engagement