Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo Part 11

"Why?"

"Oh! Somebody in the hotel has put her off. An old Englishwoman who lives in Florence told her that there's nothing to see beyond the Galleries, and that the place is very catty."

Hugh laughed and replied:

"All British colonies in Continental cities are catty, my dear Dorise.

They say that for scandal Florence takes the palm. I went there for two seasons in succession before the war, and found the place delightful."

"The Marchesa is a charming woman. Her husband was an attache at the Italian Emba.s.sy in Paris. But he has been transferred to Washington, so she has gone back to Florence. I like her immensely, and I do so want to visit her."

"Oh, you must persuade your mother to take you," he said. "She'll be easily persuaded."

"I don't know. She doesn't like travelling in Italy. She once had her dressing-case stolen from the train between Milan and Genoa, so she's always horribly bitter against all Italians."

"There are thieves also on English railways, Dorise," Hugh remarked.

"People are far too p.r.o.ne to exaggerate the shortcomings of foreigners, and close their eyes to the faults of the British."

"But everybody is not so cosmopolitan as you are, Hugh," the girl laughed, raising her eyes to those of her lover.

"No," he replied with a sigh.

"Why do you sigh?" asked the girl, having noticed a change in her companion ever since they had met in the Rooms. He seemed strangely thoughtful and preoccupied.

"Did I?" he asked, suddenly pulling himself together. "I didn't know,"

he added with a forced laugh.

"You don't look yourself to-day, Hugh," she said.

"I've been told that once before," he replied. "The weather--I think!

Are you going over to the _bal blanc_ at Nice to-night?"

"Of course. And you are coming also. Hasn't mother asked you?" she inquired in surprise.

"No."

"How silly! She must have forgotten. She told me she intended to ask you to have a seat in the car. The Comte d'Autun is coming with us."

"Ah! He admires you, Dorise, hence I don't like him," Hugh blurted forth.

"But, surely, you're not jealous, you dear old thing!" laughed the girl, tantalizing him. Perhaps she would not have uttered those words which cut deeply into his heart had she known the truth concerning the tragedy at the Villa Amette.

"I don't like him because he seems to live by gambling," Hugh declared.

"I know your mother likes him very much--of course!"

"And she likes you, too, dear."

"She may like me, but I fear she begins to suspect that we love each other, dearest," he said in a hard tone. "If she does, she will take care in future to keep us apart, and I--I shall lose you, Dorise!"

"No--no, you won't."

"Ah! But I shall! Your mother will never allow you to marry a man who has only just sufficient to rub along with, and who is already in debt to his tailor. What hope is there that we can ever marry?"

"My dear Hugh, you are awfully pessimistic to-day," the girl cried.

"What is up with you? Have you lost heavily at the tables--or what?"

"No. I have been thinking of the future," he said in a hard voice so very unusual to him. "I am thinking of your mother's choice of a husband for you--George Sherrard."

"I hate him--the egotistical puppy!" exclaimed the girl, her fine eyes flashing with anger. "I'll never marry him--_never_!"

But Hugh Henfrey made no reply, and they went on together in silence.

"Cannot you trust me, Hugh?" asked the girl at last in a low earnest tone.

"Yes, dearest. I trust you, of course. But I feel certain that your mother, when she knows our secret, will forbid your seeing me, and press on your marriage with Sherrard. Remember, he's a rich man, and your mother adores the Golden Calf."

"I know she does. If people have money she wants to know them. Her first inquiry is whether they have money."

It was on the tip of Hugh's tongue to remark with sarcasm that such ideals might well be expected of the wife of a jerry-builder in Golder's green. But he hesitated. Lady Rans...o...b..was always well disposed towards him, and he had had many good times at her house and on the grouse moor she rented in Scotland each year for the benefit of her intimate friends. Though she had been the wife of a small builder and had commenced her married life in an eight-roomed house on the fringe of Hampstead Heath, yet she had picked up society manners marvellously well, being a woman of quick intelligence and considerable wit.

Nevertheless, she had no soul above money, and gaiety was as life to her. She could not live without it. Dorise had been given an excellent education, and after three years at Versailles was now voted one of the prettiest and most charming girls in London society. Hence mother and daughter were sought after everywhere, and their doings were constantly being chronicled in the newspapers.

"Yes," he said. "Your mother has not asked me over to Nice to-night because she believes you and I have been too much together of late."

"No," declared Dorise. "I'm sure it's not that, Hugh--I'm quite sure!

It's simply an oversight. I'll see about it when we get back. We leave the hotel at half-past nine. It is the great White Ball of the Nice season."

"Please don't mention it to her on any account, Dorise," Hugh urged. "If you did it would at once show her that you preferred my company to that of the Count. Go with him. I shan't be jealous! Besides, in view of my financial circ.u.mstances, what right have I to be jealous? You can't marry a fellow like myself, Dorise. It wouldn't be fair to you."

The girl halted. In her eyes shone the light of unshed tears.

"Hugh! What do you mean? What are you saying?" she asked in a low, faltering voice. "Have I not told you that whatever happens I shall never love another man but yourself?"

He drew a long breath, and without replying placed his strong arms around her and, drawing her to him, kissed her pa.s.sionately upon the lips.

"Thank you, my darling," he murmured. "Thank you for those words. They put into me a fresh hope, a fresh determination, and a fearlessness--oh!

you--you don't know!" he added in a low, earnest voice.

"All I know, Hugh, is that you love me," was the simple response as she reciprocated his fierce caress.

"Love you, darling!" he cried. "Yes. You are mine--mine!"

"True, Hugh. I love no other man. I hate that tailor's dummy, George Sherrard, and as for the Count--well, he's an idiotic Frenchman--the 'hardy annual of Monte Carlo' I heard him called the other day. No, Hugh, I a.s.sure you that you have no cause for jealousy."

And she smiled sweetly into his eyes.

They were standing together beneath a twisted old olive tree through the dark foliage of which the sun shone in patches, while by their feet the mountain torrent from the high, snow-clad Alps rippled and splashed over the great grey boulders towards the sea.

"I know it, darling! I know it," Hugh said in a stifled voice. He was thinking of the tragedy of that night, but dare not disclose to her his connexion with it, because he knew the police suspected him of making that murderous attack upon the famous "Mademoiselle."