cious piquancy to her manner, and women tolerated her because she was affable, fashionable, and chic. Scandalous tongues had certainly done their utmost to injure her reputation, but had failed. She numbered many smart people among her friends, but not even her enemies could accuse her of vulgarity or indiscretion. All that was known was that she possessed ample means, moved in a good set, and was a conspicuous figure wherever the haut monde poured forth her children—at Trouville, Royat, Brighton, on the plage at Arcachon, or the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, according to the season and fashion.
"Let's go for a stroll, old fellow," suggested Hugh, rising, and tossing his cigar out of the window.
"I've some letters to write."
"Oh, let them wait. Come along."
Egerton's features were clouded by a frown of displeasure. He yawned wearily, but rose and accompanied his friend.
They strolled along the parade, and back, and then out to the end of the pier. Trethowen's eager eyes soon descried the object of his admiration, seated alone under the shadow of the pavilion, apparently engrossed in a novel. She looked up in surprise at their approach, and after mutual greetings they seated themselves beside her.
Valérie Dedieu, whose features were flushed—for she had been startled by their sudden appearance—was certainly remarkably pretty. She was gentle and winning, with a well-formed head, and a tall, graceful figure that any woman might have envied. Her large, expressive dark eyes, protected by their fringe of long lashes, had that look, at once stubborn and gentle, provocative and modest, wanton and ardent, of the Frenchwoman. The expression of her face was ever
