For five months Zora wandered over the world ­chiefly Italy ­without an experience which might be called an adventure.  When the Literary Man from London crossed her mind she laughed him to scorn for a prophetic popinjay.  She had broken no man’s heart, and her own was whole.  The tribes of Crim Tartary had exhibited no signs of worry and had left her unmolested.  She had furthermore taken rapturous delight in cathedrals, expensive restaurants, and the set pieces of fashionable scenery.  Rattenden had not a prophetic leg to stand on.

Yet she longed for the unattainable ­for the elusive something of which these felicities were but symbols.  Now the wanderer with a haunting sense of the Beyond, but without the true vagabond’s divine gift of piercing the veil, can only follow the obvious; and there are seasons when the obvious fails to satisfy.  When such a mood overcame her mistress, Turner railed at the upsetting quality of foreign food, and presented bicarbonate of soda.  She arrived by a different path at the unsatisfactory nature of the obvious.  Sometimes, too, the pleasant acquaintances of travel were lacking, and loneliness upset the nice balance of Zora’s nerves.  Then, more than ever, did she pine for the Beyond.

Yet youth, receptivity, imagination kept her buoyant.  Hope lured her on with renewed promises from city to city.  At last, on her homeward journey, he whispered the magic name of Monte Carlo, and her heart was aflutter in anticipation of wonderland.

She stood bewildered, lonely, and dismayed in the first row behind the chairs, fingering an empty purse.  She had been in the rooms ten minutes, and she had lost twenty louis.  Her last coup had been successful, but a bland old lady, with the white hair and waxen face of sainted motherhood, had swept up her winnings so unconcernedly that Zora’s brain began to swim.  As she felt too strange and shy to expostulate she stood fingering her empty purse.

The scene was utterly different from what she had expected.  She had imagined a gay, crowded room, wild gamblers shouting in their excitement, a band playing delirious waltz music, champagne corks popping merrily, painted women laughing, jesting loudly, all kinds of revelry and devilry and Bacchic things undreamed of.  This was silly of her, no doubt, but the silliness of inexperienced young women is a matter for the pity, not the reprobation, of the judicious.  If they take the world for their oyster and think, when they open it, they are going to find pearl necklaces ready-made, we must not blame them.  Rather let hoary-headed sinners envy them their imaginings.

The corners of Zora Middlemist’s ripe lips drooped with a child’s pathos of disillusionment.  Her nose delicately marked disgust at the heavy air and the discord of scents around her.  Having lost her money she could afford to survey with scorn the decorous yet sordid greed of the crowded table.  There was not a gleam of gaiety about it.  The people behaved with the correct impassiveness of an Anglican congregation.  She had heard of more jocular funerals.

She forgot the intoxication of her first gold and turquoise day at Monte Carlo.  A sense of loneliness ­such as a solitary dove might feel in a wilderness of evil bats ­oppressed her.  Had she not been aware that she was a remarkably attractive woman and the object of innumerable glances, she would have cried.  And twenty louis pitched into unprofitable space!  Yet she stood half fascinated by the rattle of the marble on the revolving disc, the glitter of the gold, the soft pat of the coins on the green cloth as they were thrown by the croupier.  She began to make imaginary stakes.  For five coups in succession she would have won.  It was exasperating.  There she stood, having pierced the innermost mystery of chance, without even a five-franc piece in her purse.

A man’s black sleeve pushed past her shoulder, and she saw a hand in front of her holding a louis.  Instinctively she took it.

“Thanks,” said a tired voice.  “I can’t reach the table.  She threw it, en plein, on Number Seventeen; and then with a start, realizing what she had done, she turned with burning cheeks.

“I am so sorry.”

Her glance met a pair of unspeculative blue eyes, belonging to the owner of the tired voice.  She noted that he had a sallow face, a little brown mustache, and a shock of brown hair, curiously upstanding, like Struwel Peter’s.

“I am so sorry,” she repeated.  “Please ask for it back.  What did you want me to play?”

“I don’t know.  It doesn’t matter, so long as you’ve put it somewhere.”

“But I’ve put it en plein on Seventeen,” she urged.  “I ought to have thought what I was doing.”

“Why think?” he murmured.

Mrs. Middlemist turned square to the table and fixed her eyes on the staked louis.  In spite of the blue-eyed man’s implied acquiescence she felt qualms of responsibility.  Why had she not played on an even chance, or one of the dozens, or even a transversale?  To add to her discomfort no one else played the full seventeen.  The whole table seemed silently jeering at her inexperience.

The croupiers had completed the payments of the last coup.  The marble fell with its sharp click and whizzed and rattled around the disc.  Zora held her breath.  The marble found its compartment at last, and the croupier announced: 

"Dix-sept, noir, impair et manque."

She had won.  A sigh of relief shook her bosom.  Not only had she not lost a stranger’s money, but she had won for him thirty-five times his stake.  She watched the louis greedily lest it should be swept away by a careless croupier ­perhaps the only impossible thing that could not happen at Monte Carlo ­and stretched out her arm past the bland old lady in tense determination to frustrate further felonious proceedings.  The croupier pitched seven large gold coins across the table.  She clutched them feverishly and turned to deliver them to their owner.  He was nowhere to be seen.  She broke through the ring, and with her hands full of gold scanned the room in dismayed perplexity.

At last she espied him standing dejectedly by another table.  She rushed across the intervening space and held out the money.

“See, you have won!”

“Oh, Lord!” murmured the man, removing his hands from his dinner-jacket pockets, but not offering to take his winnings.  “What a lot of trouble I have given you.”

“Of course you have,” she said tartly.  “Why didn’t you stay?”

“I don’t know,” he replied.  “How can one tell why one doesn’t do things?”

“Well, please take the money now and let me get rid of it.  There are seven pieces of five louis each.”

She counted the coins into his hand, and then suddenly flushed scarlet.  She had forgotten to claim the original louis which she had staked.  Where was it?  What had become of it?  As well try, she thought, to fish up a coin thrown into the sea.  She felt like a thief.

“There ought to be another louis,” she stammered.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the man.

“But it does matter.  You might think that I ­I kept it.”

“That’s too absurd,” he answered.  “Are you interested in guns?”

“Guns?”

She stared at him.  He appeared quite sane.

“I remember now I was thinking of guns when I went away,” he explained.  “They’re interesting things to think about.”

“But don’t you understand that I owe you a louis?  I forgot all about it.  If my purse weren’t empty I would repay you.  Will you stay here till I can get some money from my hotel ­the Hotel de Paris?”

She spoke with some vehemence.  How could the creature expect her to remain in his debt?  But the creature only passed his fingers through his upstanding hair and smiled wanly.

“Please don’t say anything more about it.  It distresses me.  The croupiers don’t return the stake, as a general rule, unless you ask for it.  They assume you want to back your luck.  Perhaps it has won again.  For goodness’ sake don’t bother about it ­and thank you very, very much.”

He bowed politely and moved a step or two away.  But Zora, struck by a solution of the mystery which had not occurred to her, as one cannot grasp all the ways and customs of gaming establishments in ten minutes, rushed back to the other table.  She arrived just in time to hear the croupier asking whom the louis on seventeen belonged to.  The number had turned up again.

This time she brought the thirty-six louis to the stranger.

“Dear me,” said he, taking the money.  “It is very astonishing.  But why did you trouble?”

“Because I’m a woman of common sense, I suppose.”

He looked at the coins in his hand as if they were shells which a child at the seaside might have brought him, and then raised his eyes slowly to hers.

“You are a very gracious lady.”  His glance and tone checked an impulse of exasperation.  She smiled.

“At any rate, I’ve won fifty-six pounds for you, and you ought to be grateful.”

He made a little gesture of acknowledgement.  Had he been a more dashing gentleman he might have expressed his gratitude for the mere privilege of conversing with a gracious lady so beautiful.  They had drifted from the outskirts of the crowded table and found themselves in the thinner crowd of saunterers.  It was the height of the Monte Carlo season and the feathers and diamonds and rouge and greedy eyes and rusty bonnets of all nations confused the sight and paralyzed thought.  Yet among all the women of both worlds Zora Middlemist stood out remarkable.  As Septimus Dix afterwards explained, the rooms that evening contained a vague kind of conglomerate woman and Zora Middlemist.  And the herd of men envied the creature on whom she smiled so graciously.

She was dressed in black, as became a young widow, but it was a black which bore no sign of mourning.  The black, sweeping ostrich plume of a picture hat gave her an air of triumph.  Black gloves reaching more than halfway up shapely arms and a gleam of snowy neck above a black chiffon bodice disquieted the imagination.  She towered over her present companion, who was five foot seven and slimly built.

“You’ve brought me all this stuff, but what am I to do with it?” he asked helplessly.

“Perhaps I had better take care of it for you.”

It was a relief from the oppressive loneliness to talk to a human being; so she lingered wistfully in conversation.  A pathetic eagerness came into the man’s face.

“I wish you would,” said he, drawing a handful from his jacket pocket.  “I should be so much happier.”

“You can hardly be such a gambler,” she laughed.

“Oh, no!  It’s not that at all.  Gambling bores me.”

“Why do you play, then?”

“I don’t.  I staked that louis because I wanted to see whether I should be interested.  I wasn’t, as I began to think about the guns.  Have you had breakfast?”

Again Zora was startled.  A sane man does not talk of breakfasting at nine o’clock in the evening.  But if he were a lunatic perhaps it were wise to humor him.

“Yes,” she said.  “Have you?”

“No.  I’ve only just got up.”

“Do you mean to say you’ve been asleep all day?”

“What’s the noisy day made for?”

“Let us sit down,” said Zora.

They found one of the crimson couches by the wall vacant, and sat down.  Zora regarded him curiously.

“Why should you be happier if I took care of your money?”

“I shouldn’t spend it.  I might meet a man who wanted to sell me a gas-engine.”

“But you needn’t buy it.”

“These fellows are so persuasive, you see.  At Rotterdam last year, a man made me buy a second-hand dentist’s chair.”

“Are you a dentist?” asked Zora.

“Lord, no!  If I were I could have used the horrible chair.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I had it packed up and despatched, carriage paid, to an imaginary person at Singapore.”

He made this announcement in his tired, gentle manner, without the flicker of a smile.  He added, reflectively ­

“That sort of thing becomes expensive.  Don’t you find it so?”

“I would defy anybody to sell me a thing I didn’t want,” she replied.

“Ah, that,” said he with a glance of wistful admiration, “that is because you have red hair.”

If any other strange male had talked about her hair, Zora Middlemist would have drawn herself up in Junoesque majesty and blighted him with a glance.  She had done with men and their compliments forever.  In that she prided herself on her Amazonianism.  But she could not be angry with the inconclusive being to whom she was talking.  As well resent the ingenuous remarks of a four-year-old child.

“What has my red hair to do with it?” she asked pleasantly.

“It was a red-haired man who sold me the dentist’s chair.”

“Oh!” said Zora, nonplussed.

There was a pause.  The man leaned back, embracing one knee with both hands.  They were nerveless, indeterminate hands, with long fingers, such as are in the habit of dropping things.  Zora wondered how they supported his knee.  For some time he stared into vacancy, his pale-blue eyes adream.  Zora laughed.

“Guns?” she asked.

“No,” said he, awaking to her presence.  “Perambulators.”

She rose.  “I thought you might be thinking of breakfast.  I must be going back to my hotel.  These rooms are too hot and horrible.  Good night.”

“I will see you to the lift, if you’ll allow me,” he said politely.

She graciously assented and they left the rooms together.  In the atrium she changed her mind about the lift.  She would leave the Casino by the main entrance and walk over to the Hotel de Paris for the sake of a breath of fresh air.  At the top of the steps she paused and filled her lungs.  It was a still, moonless night, and the stars hung low down, like diamonds on a canopy of black velvet.  They made the flaring lights of the terrace of the Hotel and Cafe de Paris look tawdry and meretricious.

“I hate them,” she said, pointing to the latter.

“Stars are better,” said her companion.

She turned on him swiftly.

“How did you know I was making comparisons?”

“I felt it,” he murmured.

They walked slowly down the steps.  At the bottom a carriage and pair seemed to rise mysteriously out of the earth.

“‘Ave a drive?  Ver’ good carriage,” said a voice out of the dimness.  Monte Carlo cabmen are unerring in their divination of the Anglo-Saxon.

Why not?  The suggestion awoke in her an instant craving for the true beauty of the land.  It was unconventional, audacious, crazy.  But, again, why not?  Zora Middlemist was answerable for her actions to no man or woman alive.  Why not drink a great draught of the freedom that was hers?  What did it matter that the man was a stranger?  All the more daring the adventure.  Her heart beat gladly.  But chaste women, like children, know instinctively the man they can trust.

“Shall we?”

“Drive?”

“Yes ­unless ­” a thought suddenly striking her ­“unless you want to go back to your friends.”

“Good Lord!” said he, aghast, as if she were accusing him of criminal associations.  “I have no friends.”

“Then come.”

She entered the carriage.  He followed meekly and sat beside her.  Where should they drive?  The cabman suggested the coast road to Mentone.  She agreed.  On the point of starting she observed that her companion was bare-headed.

“You’ve forgotten your hat.”

She spoke to him as she would have done to a child.

“Why bother about hats?”

“You’ll catch your death of cold.  Go and get it at once.”

He obeyed with a docility which sent a little tingle of exaltation through Mrs. Middlemist.  A woman may have an inordinate antipathy to men, but she loves them to do her bidding.  Zora was a woman; she was also young.

He returned.  The cabman whipped up his strong pair of horses, and they started through the town towards Mentone.

Zora lay back on the cushions and drank in the sensuous loveliness of the night ­the warm, scented air, the velvet and diamond sky, the fragrant orange groves ­the dim, mysterious olive trees, the looming hills, the wine-colored, silken sea, with its faint edging of lace on the dusky sweep of the bay.  The spirit of the South overspread her with its wings and took her amorously in its arms.

After a long, long silence she sighed, remembering her companion.

“Thank you for not talking,” she said softly.

“Don’t,” he replied.  “I had nothing to say.  I never talk.  I’ve scarcely talked for a year.”

She laughed idly.

“Why?”

“No one to talk to.  Except my man,” he added conscientiously.  “His name is Wiggleswick.”

“I hope he looks after you well,” said Zora, with a touch of maternal instinct.

“He wants training.  That’s what I am always telling him.  But he can’t hear.  He’s seventy and stone-deaf.  But he’s interesting.  He tells me about jails and things.”

“Jails?”

“Yes.  He spent most of his time in prison.  He was a professional burglar ­but then he got on in years.  Besides, the younger generation was knocking at the door.”

“I thought that was the last thing a burglar would do,” said Zora.

“They generally use jemmies,” he said gravely.  “Wiggleswick has given me his collection.  They’re very useful.”

“What for?” she asked.

“To kill moths with,” he replied dreamily.

“But what made you take a superannuated burglar for a valet?”

“I don’t know.  Perhaps it was Wiggleswick himself.  He came up to me one day as I was sitting in Kensington Gardens, and somehow followed me home.”

“But, good gracious,” cried Zora ­forgetful for the moment of stars and sea ­“aren’t you afraid that he will rob you?”

“No.  I asked him, and he explained.  You see, it would be out of his line.  A forger only forges, a pickpocket only snatches chains and purses, and a burglar only burgles.  Now, he couldn’t burgle the place in which he was living himself, so I am safe.”

Zora gave him sage counsel.

“I’d get rid of him if I were you.”

“If I were you, I would ­but I can’t,” he replied.  “If I told him to go he wouldn’t.  I go instead sometimes.  That’s why I’m here.”

“If you go on talking like that, you’ll make my brain reel,” said Zora laughing.  “Do tell me something about yourself.  What is your name?”

“Septimus Dix.  I’ve got another name ­Ajax ­Septimus Ajax Dix ­but I never use it.”

“That’s a pity,” said Zora.  “Ajax is a lovely name.”

He dissented in his vague fashion.  “Ajax suggests somebody who defies lightning and fools about with a spear.  It’s a silly name.  A maiden aunt persuaded my mother to give it to me.  I think she mixed it up with Achilles.  She admired the statue in Hyde Park.  She got run over by a milkcart.”

“When was that?” she inquired, more out of politeness than interest in the career of Mr. Dix’s maiden aunt.

“A minute before she died.”

“Oh,” said Zora, taken aback by the emotionless manner in which he mentioned the tragedy.  Then, by way of continuing the conversation: ­

“Why are you called Septimus?”

“I’m the seventh son.  All the others died young.  I never could make out why I didn’t.”

“Perhaps,” said Zora with a laugh, “you were thinking of something else at the time and lost the opportunity.”

“It must have been that,” said he.  “I lose opportunities just as I always lose trains.”

“How do you manage to get anywhere?”

“I wait for the next train.  That’s easy.  But there’s never another opportunity.”

He drew a cigarette from his case, put it in his mouth, and fumbled in his pockets for matches.  Finding none, he threw the cigarette into the road.

“That’s just like you,” cried Zora.  “Why didn’t you ask the cabman for a light?”

She laughed at him with an odd sense of intimacy, though she had known him for scarcely an hour.  He seemed rather a stray child than a man.  She longed to befriend him ­to do something for him, motherwise ­she knew not what.  Her adventure by now had failed to be adventurous.  The spice of danger had vanished.  She knew she could sit beside this helpless being till the day of doom without fear of molestation by word or act.

He obtained a light for his cigarette from the cabman and smoked in silence.  Gradually the languor of the night again stole over her senses, and she forgot his existence.  The carriage had turned homeward, and at a bend of the road, high up above the sea, Monte Carlo came into view, gleaming white far away below, like a group of fairy palaces lit by fairy lamps, sheltered by the great black promontory of Monaco.  From the gorge on the left, the terraced rock on the right, came the smell of the wild thyme and rosemary and the perfume of pale flowers.  The touch of the air on her cheek was a warm and scented kiss.  The diamond stars drooped towards her like a Danae shower.  Like Danae’s, her lips were parted.  Her eyes strained far beyond the stars into an unknown glory, and her heart throbbed with a passionate desire for unknown things.  Of what nature they might be she did not dream.  Not love.  Zora Middlemist had forsworn it.  Not the worship of a man.  She had vowed by all the saints in her hierarchy that no man should ever again enter her life.  Her soul revolted against the unutterable sex.

As soon as one realizes the exquisite humbug of sublunary existence he must weep for the pity of it.

The warm and scented air was a kiss, too, on the cheek of Septimus Dix; and his senses, too, were enthralled by the witchery of the night.  But for him stars and scented air and the magic beauty of the sea were incarnate in the woman by his side.

Zora, as I have said, had forgotten the poor devil’s existence.