“It is Sasso,” said Rainham.  “I should have been delighted to come with you, but I am afraid it is out of the reach of carriages, and of invalids.  You might go there on a mule.”

“Oh no!” she laughed; “I think on the whole we shall be more comfortable at the Hotel de Paris.  Can’t we induce you to come with us now?”

Rainham lifted his eyebrows, smiling a little and groping vaguely for an excuse, while Mrs. Dollond turned to her husband with a look which demanded corroboration of her speech.

“Yes, Mr. Rainham, do come, if you possibly can,” supplemented Mr. Dollond, coming forward in burlesque obedience.  “We are boring each other horribly—­I can answer for myself—­and it would be an act of real charity.”

“Well, Hugh, I am ashamed of you!  You really ought not to say such things.  If you can’t behave better than that, you may go on maltreating those thistles.  I declare we have left a regular trail of heads in our wake,—­like the Revolution, or Judge Jeffreys.”

“Bloody Jeffreys!” suggested Mr. Dollond mildly.

His wife turned to Rainham with the little despairing gesture which she reckoned one of her most effective mannerisms.

“Is not he dreadful?  But you will come, Mr. Rainham?  I am sure you know all about systems, and—­and things.  You know I insist on winning; so I must have a system, mustn’t I?”

“Ah, Mrs. Dollond,” said her companion humorously, “you remind me that the only system I have is a very bad one.  I am afraid my doctor would not trust me with it at Monaco.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Dollond reflectively; “but you need not gamble, you know!  You can help me, and see that I don’t get cheated.  Hugh and I will see your doctor, and promise to take care of you.  Hugh shall carry your shawl—­he likes carrying shawls.”

“He is getting used to it,” interposed her husband dryly.

“Ah, well, that is settled,” continued the lady gaily, leaving her victim no time to formulate more than the lamest of protests.

By this time they had reached the middle of the cape, and they stood for a moment by the lazy fountain looking down at the Marina straggling below the palms; and beyond, at the outline of the French coast, with white Mentone set in it, precisely, like a jewel.

“The dear little place!” cried Mrs. Dollond in a rapture; “I suppose Monaco is behind that cape.  I wish we could see it.  And it would not look a bit wicked from here.  I declare, I should like to live there!”

“I’ve no doubt you would, my dear!” said her husband; “but you sha’n’t, so long as I have any voice in the matter.  I don’t get so much for my pictures that I can afford to contribute to M. Blanc’s support.”

Rainham followed the direction of her eyes absently.  “I have half a mind to go with you after all,” he said.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Dollond; “it will do you worlds of good; we will drive you over with us to-morrow.  And now, Mr. Rainham, if you don’t mind, I think we will sit down.  I can see that Hugh is getting out his sketch-book.”