Gregory sighed.
“Bad, Perkins—bad!” he admitted. “I ought not to have gone there at all. Was I—er—misbehaving more than usual?”
“You seemed to be making a little free with the young women down there, if I might say so, sir,” Perkins replied.
Gregory poured himself out some tea.
“Well, it was the last night, anyhow,” he said, with an air of relief. “I am landing at Marseilles.”
“I have packed most of your things, sir,” the man announced. “I expect they’ll bustle the overland passengers off the ship as quickly as possible. We’re a good many hours late as it is, and the train will be waiting.”
“I am going the other way,” Gregory confided. “I have a strange feeling, Perkins, that I am likely to win at Monte Carlo. I have been there twice before and lost pretty well all I possessed at the moment. This time I feel like winning. Anyway, I am going to try my luck.”
“When shall I be able to finish your packing, sir?”
“Whenever you like and as soon as you like. I don’t care for this ship, Perkins. You’re a good fellow and you’ve looked after me very well, but I don’t like the rest of them any more than they like me. You wouldn’t say that I was a popular person on board, would you, Perkins?”
The man made no reply for a moment. He was occupied thrusting the trees into some evening slippers.