At Monte Carlo, as all the world knows, there is an Arcade devoted to the most humorously expensive lace, diamond and general vanity shops in the universe, the Hotel Metropole and Ciro's Restaurant.

And Ciro's has a terrace where there are little afternoon tea-tables covered with pink cloths.
It was late in the afternoon, and save for a burly Englishman in white flannels and a Panama hat, reading a magazine by the door, and Zora and Septimus, who sat near the public gangway, the terrace was deserted.
Inside, some men lounged about the bar drinking cocktails.

The red Tzigane orchestra were already filing into the restaurant and the electric lamps were lit.

Zora and Septimus had just returned from a day's excursion to Cannes.

They were pleasantly tired and lingered over their tea in a companionable silence.