"Yes, my boy, I am disgusted. All I want in winter is quiet, sunshine, and good air. That's what I come here for. And I can get all that at Palermo or Algiers, for in those places the air is even better than here."
"But it isn't so fashionable," I observed.
"To an old man like me it doesn't matter whether a place is fashionable or not, my dear Miss Rosselli," he said, with a serious look. "I leave all that sort of thing to Gerald. He has his clubs, his horses, his fine friends and all the rest of it. But all the people know Ben Keppel of Johannesburg. Even if I belonged to the most swagger of the clubs and mixed in good society—among lords and ladies of the aristocracy, I mean—I'd still be the same. I couldn't alter myself as some of 'em try to do."
We laughed. The old man was so blunt that one could not help admiring him. He had the reputation of being niggardly in certain matters, especially regarding Gerald's allowance; but, as Ulrica had remarked, there were no doubt plenty of people who would be anxious to lend money to the millionaire's heir upon post-obits, so that, after all, it didn't much matter.
If inclined to be economical in one or two directions, he certainly kept a remarkably good table; but although there were choice wines for us, he drank only water.
When, with Gerald, he joined us in the great drawing-room, he seated himself near me and suddenly said:
"I don't know, Miss Rosselli, whether you'd like to remain here and gossip, or whether you'd like to stroll round the place. You are a woman, and there may be something to interest you in it."
"I shall be delighted, I'm sure," I said, and together we went forth to wander about the great mansion, which all the world on the Riviera knows as the home of the renowned Ben Keppel.
He showed me his library, the boudoirs which were never occupied, the gallery of modern French paintings, the Indian tea-room, and the great conservatory whence we walked out upon the terrace and looked down upon the lights of the gay winter city lying at our feet, and at the flash of white brilliance that ever and anon shot across the tranquil sea, marking the dangerous headland at Antibes.
The night was lovely—one of those bright and perfect nights which occur so often on the Riviera in January. At sundown the air is always damp and treacherous, but when darkness falls it is no longer dangerous, even to those with extremely delicate constitutions.