But perhaps the countess would stop him.

Well, Selden told himself, in either event he did not care. He was only an outsider looking on at the comedy and applauding the bits that appealed to him.

And yet—was that all? Or had he been involved? Had he a stake in the game?

But a ballet dancer ... a woman who was for sale....

CHAPTER XVI
AT CIRO’S

IT was to Ciro’s that Selden had promised to take the countess that evening, and remembering his resolve to give her the best the place had to offer, he drove there, before going to his room, to reserve a corner table and have a word with the head waiter.

He found that worthy, of course, most anxious to oblige, and fertile in suggestion. There had just arrived a shipment of marennes, vitesse, from La Grève; they would be delicious; yes? good, monsieur. For soup, petite marmite, perhaps; no, that would be too heavy; croûte-au-pot would be better; good. For fish, a sole, perhaps, or a trout prepared in a special way; no—one moment; Jean, bring hither that basket of langouste; behold, monsieur, how fresh, how sweet, and not too large; this one; good; for garniture, trust me, monsieur. And then partridges, perhaps, or a wild duck; no—permit me to suggest pauillac, monsieur, pauillac véritable, very young, very tender, truly fed with milk, delicious; with asperges; good. And for entremet monsieur wishes crêpes susettes; good. For wine, Martinis first, of course; then a little Sauterne with the oysters; and then what would monsieur prefer? Champagne? No. Bordeaux, Burgundy? Permit me, monsieur, to suggest a Chateauneuf du Pape of which we are very proud—1915, the great year—and from the special vineyard just above Avignon; good. At nine o’clock? It shall be ready, monsieur. Au revoir, monsieur; merci bien. And Selden went on to the hotel feeling as though he had assisted at a sacrament.

So at nine o’clock, behold him, seated beside the Countess Rémond on the banquette at a corner table—the langouste, with garniture of pink jelly and ornaments of truffles, proudly displayed near by—ready to talk, to listen, to dine, and to observe the world at its gambols.

For Ciro’s is not only the pleasantest restaurant at Monte Carlo, but the most discreet as well, for there, sitting in view of all the world, one can talk of the most intimate things much more safely than in a private room, with the certainty that one’s voice will be lost in the lively medley of dancing feet and music and other voices with which the place is always filled.

And one can dine well, also; though not quite so well, perhaps, as in the old days, for there is a new proprietor. The former one, a handsome, slim Italian who had kept his youth while his wife had lost hers through excessive libations, suddenly quarrelled with her, sold his business and took train to Paris, where he now manages a restaurant, small and very intime, known only to the elect, two steps from the Avenue de l’Opéra. He is a pleasant fellow, with a record of many conquests; but he goes to see his wife sometimes at the lodging house which she now conducts in the Rue St. Georges, and his two daughters who are very fond of him; and sends them champagne for their réveillon and their fête days; and the chef he took with him now delights his very discriminating Parisian patrons.