"It is unfortunate," he observed. "I will move my quarters to-morrow."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Monte Carlo is full of hotels," she remarked, "but it seems a pity that you should move. The place is large enough for both of us."
"It is not long," he retorted, "since you found London itself too small. I should be very sorry to spoil your holiday."
Her eyes seemed to dwell for a moment upon the Spanish dancer who sat at the table opposite them, a woman whose name had once been a household word, dethroned now, yet still insistent for notice and homage; commanding them, even, with the wreck of her beauty and the splendour of her clothes.
"It seems a queer place, this," she observed, "for domestic disagreements. Let us try to avoid disputable subjects. Shall I be too inquisitive if I ask you once more what in the name of all that is unsuitable brought you to such a place as Monte Carlo?"
He fenced with her question. Perhaps he resented the slightly ironical note in her tone. Perhaps there were other reasons.
"Why should I not come to Monte Carlo?" he enquired. "Parliament is not particularly amusing when one is in opposition, and I do not hunt. The whole world amuses itself here."
"But not you," she replied quickly. "I know you better than that, my dear Henry. There is nothing here or in this atmosphere which could possibly attract you for long. There is no work for you to do—work, the very breath of your body; work, the one thing you live for and were made for; work, you man of sawdust and red tape."
"Am I as bad as all that?" he asked quietly.