CHAPTER XXII

BY THE MEDITERRANEAN

It was February—­not the foggy, muddy February of dear, damp Old England, but winter beside the bright blue Mediterranean, the winter of the Cote d’Azur.

At the Villa Heyburn—­that big, square, white house with the green sun-shutters, surrounded by its great garden full of spreading palms, sweet-smelling mimosa, orange-trees laden with golden fruit, and bright geraniums, up on the Berigo at San Remo—­Lady Heyburn had that afternoon given a big luncheon-party.  The smartest people wintering in that most sheltered nook of the Italian Riviera had eaten and gossiped and flirted, and gone back to their villas and hotels.  Dull persons found no place in Lady Heyburn’s circle.  Most of the people were those she knew in London or in Paris, including a sprinkling of cosmopolitans, a Russian prince notorious for his losses over at the new cercle at Cannes, a divorced Austrian Archduchess, and two or three well-known diplomats.

“Dear old Henry” remained, of course, at Glencardine, as he always did.  Lady Heyburn looked upon her winter visit to that beautiful villa overlooking the calm sapphire sea as her annual emancipation.  Henry was a dear old fellow, she openly confided to her friends, but his affliction made him terribly trying.

But Jimmy Flockart, the good-looking, amusing, well-dressed idler, was living down at the “Savoy,” and was daily in her company, driving, motoring, picnicking, making excursions in the mountains, or taking trips over to “Monte” by the train-de-luxe.  He had left the villa early in the afternoon, returned to his hotel, changed his smart flannels for a tweed suit, and, taking a stout stick, had set off alone for his daily constitutional along the sea-road in the direction of that pretty but half-deserted little watering-place, Ospedaletti.

Straight before him, into the unruffled, tideless sea, the sun was sinking in all its blood-red glory as he went at swinging pace along the white, dusty road, past the octroi barrier, and out into the country where, on the left, the waves lazily lapped the grey rocks, while upon the right the fertile slopes were covered with carnations and violets growing for the markets of Paris and London.  In the air was a delightful perfume, the freshness of the sea in combination with the sweetness of the flowers.

A big red motor-car dashed suddenly round a corner, raising a cloud of dust.  An American party were on their way from Genoa to the frontier along the Corniche, one of the most picturesque routes in all the world.

James Flockart had no eyes for beauty.  He was too occupied by certain grave apprehensions.  That morning he had walked in the garden with Lady Heyburn, and had a long chat with her.  Her attitude had been peculiar.  He could not make her out.  She had begged him to promise to leave San Remo, and when asked to tell the reason of this sudden demand she had firmly refused.