Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo | Page 4

"You were always unreasonable. Your present request is another instance of it. I was enjoying myself very much indeed until you came, and now you wish to deprive me of one of my chief pleasures. I cannot humour you."
He turned away. Even then chance might have intervened. The moment her words had been spoken she realised a certain injustice in them, realised a little, perhaps, the point of view of this man who was still her husband. 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. Let us try to avoid disputable subjects. Shall I be too inquisitive if I ask you once more what in the name of all that is unsuitable brought you to such a place as Monte Carlo?"
He fenced with her question. Perhaps he resented the slightly ironical note in her tone. Perhaps there were other reasons.
"Why should I not come to Monte Carlo?" he enquired. "Parliament is not particularly amusing when one is in opposition, and I do not hunt. The whole world amuses itself here."
"But not you," she replied quickly. "I know you better than that, my dear Henry. There is nothing here or in this atmosphere which could possibly attract you for long. There is no work for you to do--work, the very breath of your body; work, the one thing you live for and were made for; work, you man of sawdust and red tape."
"Am I as bad as all that?" he asked quietly.
She fingered her pearls for a moment.
"Perhaps I haven't the right to complain," she acknowledged. "I have gone my own way always. But if one is permitted to look for a moment into the past, can you tell me a single hour when work was not the prominent thought in your brain, the idol before which you worshipped? Why, even our honeymoon was spent canvassing!"
"The election was an unexpected one," he reminded her.
"It would have been the same thing," she declared. "The only literature which you really understand is a Blue Book, and the only music you hear is the chiming of Big Ben."
"You speak," he remarked, "as though you resented these things. Yet you knew before you married me that I had ambitions, that I did not propose to lead an idle life."
"Oh, yes, I knew!" she assented drily. "But we are wandering from the point. I am still wondering what has brought you here. Have you come direct from England?"
He shook his head.
"I came to-day from Bordighera."
"More and more mysterious," she murmured. "Bordighera, indeed! I thought you once told me that you hated the Riviera."
"So I do," he agreed.
"And yet you are here?"
"Yet I am here."
"And you have not come to look after me," she went on, "and the mystery of the little brown man who watches me is still unexplained."
"I know nothing about that person," he asserted, "and I had no idea that you were here."
"Or you would not have come?" she challenged him.
"Your presence," he retorted, nettled into forgetting himself for a moment, "would not have altered my plans in the slightest."
"Then you have a reason for coming!" she exclaimed quickly.
He gave no sign of annoyance but his lips were firmly closed. She watched him steadfastly.
"I wonder at myself no longer," she continued. "I do not think that any woman in the world could ever live with a man to whom secrecy is as great a necessity as the very air he breathes. No wonder, my dear Henry, the politicians speak so well of you, and so confidently of your brilliant future!"
"I am not aware," he observed calmly, "that I have ever been unduly secretive so far as you are concerned. During the last few months, however, of our life together, you must remember that you chose to receive on terms of friendship a person whom I regard--"
Her