She raised her clear, wonderful eyes to his as she stammered a question, asking if that was his first visit to the Riviera.
“Yes,” he answered, gazing around at the Casino, the mountains, and the sea. “How charming it is here. I don’t wonder that you are so fond of it.”
“I’m not fond of it?” she protested, with a sigh. “I would rather be in England—much rather.”
“Yet you are half-French yourself! Surely this is gayer and much more pleasant than Stratfield Mortimer,” he exclaimed, leaning with his back to the balustrade, glancing at her elegant dress, and noticing how well it suited her.
“The surroundings are perhaps more picturesque,” she replied, turning her gaze sea-ward. “But I was far happier there than here,” She sighed and the little gloved hand holding her sunshade trembled.
“Why?” he inquired surprised.
For an instant she raised her eyes to his, then lowering her gaze, answered,—
“Why do you ask? Did I not then have you?”
“But I am here now,” he said quickly. “I must, however, admit that your welcome was scarcely as cordial as I expected.”
Her lips tightened, and she swallowed the lump rising in her throat.