She was wondering whether his fortune had driven him mad.
“The poor,” he said firmly, “money won by gambling——”
“Nonsense,” she broke in, “to what poor are you giving it?”
“To poor Timothy,” said he. “Let us dash madly to the bar and drink orangeade.”
CHAPTER XX
THE band was playing one of de Courville’s new revue tunes, and the Café de Paris was crowded out. There had been a big influx of visitors from Nice, and Monte Carlo presented an appearance comparable with the height of the season. Mrs. Renfrew had motored up to La Turbie, and a bank of cloud having descended upon the mountain made the road dangerous. (Those who have journeyed from the Corniche to Monte Carlo by night will appreciate just how dangerous is that road.) She had, therefore, elected to spend the night at the hotel on the top of the hill.
This information she had telephoned to the girl on the night following Timothy’s great win, and had added that she could see “the twinkling lights of Monte Carlo” and that “the misty spaces of ocean filled her with strange unrest,” which observation had been repeated to the unsympathetic Timothy.
“It must be awful to have a mind like that,” he said, and then, “Mary, I’ve been a long time waiting to exchange confidences about cousins.”
“I have no confidences to give you about Mrs. Renfrew,” said Mary with a smile, “but you have been on the point of telling me about your cousin so often that I feel a little curious.”
The story he had to tell was not a nice one. It meant opening old wounds and reviving sad memories, but it had to be done. She was not so shocked as he had expected.