At The Villa Rose

"I couldn't let you play against me, Celia," he said, in English;

"my luck's too good tonight. So you shall be my partner instead.

I'll put in the capital and we'll share the winnings."

The girl's face flushed rosily. Her hand still lay clasped in his.

She made no effort to withdraw it.

"I couldn't do that," she exclaimed.

"Why not?" said he. "See!" and loosening her fingers he took from

them the five-louis note and tossed it over to the croupier to be

added to his bank. "Now you can't help yourself. We're partners."

The girl laughed, and the company at the table smiled, half in

sympathy, half with amusement. A chair was brought for her, and

she sat down behind Wethermill, her lips parted, her face joyous

with excitement. But all at once Wethermill's luck deserted him.

He renewed his bank three times, and had lost the greater part of

his winnings when he had dealt the cards through. He took a fourth

bank, and rose from that, too, a loser.

"That's enough, Celia," he said. "Let us go out into the garden;

it will be cooler there," "I have taken your good luck away," said the girl remorsefully.

Wethermill put his arm through hers.

"You'll have to take yourself away before you can do that," he

answered, and the couple walked together out of Ricardo's hearing.

Ricardo was left to wonder about Celia. She was just one of those

problems which made Aix-les-Bains so unfailingly attractive to

him. She dwelt in some street of Bohemia; so much was clear. The

frankness of her pleasure, of her excitement, and even of her

distress proved it. She passed from one to the other while you

could deal a pack of cards. She was at no pains to wear a mask.

Moreover, she was a young girl of nineteen or twenty, running

about those rooms alone, as unembarrassed as if she had been at

home. There was the free use, too, of Christian names. Certainly

she dwelt in Bohemia. But it seemed to Ricardo that she could pass

in any company and yet not be overpassed. She would look a little

more picturesque than most girls of her age, and she was certainly

a good deal more soignee than many, and she had the Frenchwoman's

knack of putting on her clothes. But those would be all the

differences, leaving out the frankness. Ricardo wondered in what

street of Bohemia she dwelt. He wondered still more when he saw

her again half an hour afterwards at the entrance to the Villa des

Fleurs. She came down the long hall with Harry Wethermill at her

side. The couple were walking slowly, and talking as they walked

with so complete an absorption in each other that they were

unaware of their surroundings. At the bottom of the steps a stout

woman of fifty-five over-jewelled, and over-dressed and raddled

with paint, watched their approach with a smile of good-humoured

amusement. When they came near enough to hear she said in French: