I had already heard the sharp popping of rifles.  I went to the railings, and saw a number of boxes arranged in a semicircle on a green, which was, as it were, suspended between the height of the terrace and the sea.  Suddenly one of the boxes collapsed with a rattle, and a bird flew out of the ruin of it.  There were two reports of a gun; the bird, its curving flight cut short, fell fluttering to the grass; a dog trotted out from the direction of the gun unseen beneath us, and disappeared again with the mass of ruffled feathers in its mouth.  Then two men showed themselves, ran to the collapsed box, restored it, and put in it a fresh victim, and disappeared after the dog.  I was horrified, but I could not remove my eyes from the green.  Another box fell flat, and another bird flew out; a gun sounded; the bird soared far away, wavered, and sank on to the surface of the sea, and the boats converged towards it in furious haste.  So the game proceeded.  I saw a dozen deaths on the green; a few birds fell into the sea, and one escaped, settling ultimately on the roof of the Casino.

‘So that is pigeon-shooting,’ I said coldly, turning to Frank.  ’I suppose it goes on all day?’

He nodded.

‘It’s just as cruel as plenty of other sports, and no more,’ he said, as if apologizing for the entire male sex.

‘I presume so,’ I answered.  ’But do you know, dear, if the idea once gets into my head that that is going on all day, I shan’t be able to stop here.  Let us have tea somewhere.’

Not until dinner did I recover from the obsession of that continual slaughter and destruction of beautiful life.  It seemed to me that the Casino and its gorgeous gardens were veritably established on the mysterious arched hollow, within the high cliff, from which death shot out all day and every day.  But I did recover perfectly.  Only now do I completely perceive how violent, how capricious and contradictory were my emotions in those unique and unforgettable hours.

We dined late, because I had deprived myself of Yvonne.  Already I was almost in a mind to send for her.  The restaurant of the hotel was full, but we recognised no one as we walked through the room to our table.

‘There is one advantage in travelling about with you,’ said Frank.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

’No matter where one is, one can always be sure of being with the most beautiful woman in the place.’

I was content.  I repaid him by being more than ever a man’s woman.  I knew that I was made for that.  I understood why great sopranos have of their own accord given up even the stage on marriage.  The career of literature seemed to me tedious and sordid in comparison with that of being a man’s woman.  In my rich black dress and my rings and bracelets I felt like an Eastern Empress; I felt that I could adequately reward homage with smiles, and love with fervid love.  And I felt like a cat—­idle, indolently graceful, voluptuously seeking warmth and