“One tires of the old resorts,” said Madame Beaumont, with a faint but sweet smile.  “What is the use to fly to the mountains or the seashore to escape noise and dust when the very people that make both follow us there?”

“Even on the ocean,” remarked Farrington, sadly, “the Philistines be upon you.  The most exclusive steamers are getting to be scarcely more than ferry boats.  Heaven help us when the summer resorter discovers that the Lotus is further away from Broadway than Thousand Islands or Mackinac.”

“I hope our secret will be safe for a week, anyhow,” said Madame, with a sigh and a smile.  “I do not know where I would go if they should descend upon the dear Lotus.  I know of but one place so delightful in summer, and that is the castle of Count Polinski, in the Ural Mountains.”

“I hear that Baden-Baden and Cannes are almost deserted this season,” said Farrington.  “Year by year the old resorts fall in disrepute.  Perhaps many others, like ourselves, are seeking out the quiet nooks that are overlooked by the majority.”

“I promise myself three days more of this delicious rest,” said Madame Beaumont.  “On Monday the Cedric sails.”

Harold Farrington’s eyes proclaimed his regret.  “I too must leave on Monday,” he said, “but I do not go abroad.”

Madame Beaumont shrugged one round shoulder in a foreign gesture.

“One cannot hide here forever, charming though it may be.  The chateau has been in preparation for me longer than a month.  Those house parties that one must give—­what a nuisance!  But I shall never forget my week in the Hotel Lotus.”

“Nor shall I,” said Farrington in a low voice, “and I shall never forgive the Cedric.”

On Sunday evening, three days afterward, the two sat at a little table on the same balcony.  A discreet waiter brought ices and small glasses of claret cup.

Madame Beaumont wore the same beautiful evening gown that she had worn each day at dinner.  She seemed thoughtful.  Near her hand on the table lay a small chatelaine purse.  After she had eaten her ice she opened the purse and took out a one-dollar bill.

“Mr. Farrington,” she said, with the smile that had won the Hotel Lotus, “I want to tell you something.  I’m going to leave before breakfast in the morning, because I’ve got to go back to my work.  I’m behind the hosiery counter at Casey’s Mammoth Store, and my vacation’s up at eight o’clock to-morrow.  That paper-dollar is the last cent I’ll see till I draw my eight dollars salary next Saturday night.  You’re a real gentleman, and you’ve been good to me, and I wanted to tell you before I went.