He had seen quite enough of Riviera beauty on parade.
"She's simply ripping.

I got a glimpse of her this afternoon in front of the _Terrasse_, after she'd first motored over from Nice with old Szapary!" He lowered his voice, more confidentially.

"This Frenchman here has just been telling his wife that she's the loveliest woman on the Riviera today.

Come on!" Durkin stood indifferently, under the white glare of the electric lamp, watching the younger man push through to the centre of the roadway.
The slowly-moving touring-car, hemmed in by the languid midnight movement of the street, came to a full stop almost before where he stood.

It shuddered and panted there, leviathan-like, and Durkin saw the sea breeze sway back the canopy drapery.
He followed the direction of the excited young Chicagoan's gaze, smilingly, now, and with a singularly disengaged mind.
He saw the woman's clear profile outlined against the floating purple curtain, the quiet and shadowy eyes of violet, the glint of the chestnut hair that showed through the back-thrust folds of the white silk automobile veil swathing the small head, and the nervous, bird-like movement of the head itself.
He did not move; there was no involuntary, galvanic reaction; no sudden gasp and flame of wonder.