She watched him almost eagerly, hoping to find some sign in his face that it was not only his stubborn pride which spoke.

She failed, however.

He was one of those men who know too well how to wear the mask.
"May I ask where you are staying here ?" he enquired presently.
"At the Hotel de Paris." "It is unfortunate," he observed.

"I will move my quarters to-morrow." She shrugged her shoulders.
"Monte Carlo is full of hotels," she remarked, "but it seems a pity that you should move.

The place is large enough for both of us." "It is not long," he retorted, "since you found London itself too small.
I should be very sorry to spoil your holiday." Her eyes seemed to dwell for a moment upon the Spanish dancer who sat at the table opposite them, a woman whose name had once been a household word, dethroned now, yet still insistent for notice and homage; commanding them, even, with the wreck of her beauty and the splendour of her clothes.
"It seems a queer place, this," she observed, "for domestic disagreements.