"One does not
speculate with one's own money. I should have thought that any one with
the least knowledge of finance would understand that. This man seems to
think he has a lien upon our private fortunes."
"Not only that," Peter Phipps groaned, "but he's attaching as much as he
can get hold of. And to think of that old devil, Skinflint Martin,
scenting the trouble and getting off to Buenos Ayres! The best part of
half a million he got off with. Pig!--Stanley, this may be our last
season at Monte Carlo. We shall have to draw in. Every year it gets more
difficult to make money."
"One month more of the British and Imperial," Stanley Rees sighed, "and
we should both have been millionaires."
"And as it is," his uncle groaned, "I am beginning to get a little
nervous about our hotel bill."
* * * * *
With a benedictory wave of his hand, an all-welcoming smile, and a
backward progress which suggested distinction bordering upon royalty, the
chief _maitre d'hotel_ ushered his distinguished patrons to the table
which had been reserved for them. Josephine looked across the little sea
of her favourite blue gentians and smiled at her husband.
"You remember always," she murmured.
Wingate, who was standing up until his guests were seated, flashed an
answering smile. At his right hand was a French princess, who was
Josephine's godmother; at his left Sarah, lately glorified to married
estate.
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