THE WHITE GIRL ON THE TERRACE:  THE ROSE GIRL AT THE CASINO

[Illustration:  T]

There was a young man in Monte Carlo.  He had come in a motor car, and he had come a long way, but he hardly knew why he had come.  He hardly knew in these days why he did anything.  But then, one must do something.

It would be Christmas soon, and he thought that he would rather get it over on the Riviera than anywhere else, because the blue and gold weather would not remind him of other Christmases which were gone—­pure, white, cold Christmases, musical with joy-bells and sweet with aromatic pine, the scent of trees born to be Christmas trees.

There had been a time when he had fancied it would be a wonderful thing to see the Riviera.  He had thought what it would be like to be a rich man, and bring a certain girl here for a moon of honey and roses.

She was the most beautiful girl in the world, or he believed her so, which is exactly the same thing; and he had imagined the joy of walking with her on just such a terrace as this Casino terrace where he was walking now, alone.  She would be in white, with one of those long ermine things that women call stoles; an ermine muff (the big, “granny” kind that swallows girlish arms up to the dimples in their elbows) and a hat which they would have bought together in Paris.

They would have bought jewels, too, in the same street where they found the hat; the Rue de la Paix, which she had told him she longed to see.  And she would be wearing some of the jewels with the white dress—­just a few, not many, of course.  A string of pearls (she loved pearls) a swallow brooch (he had heard her say she admired those swallow brooches, and he never forgot anything she said); with perhaps a sapphire-studded buckle on her white suede belt.  Yes, that would be all, except the rings, which would lie hidden under her gloves, on the dear little hands whose nails were like enamelled rose leaves.

When she moved, walking beside him on the terrace, there would be a mysterious silky whisper and rustle, something like that you hear in the woods, in the spring, when the leaves are crisp with their pale green youth, and you shut your eyes, listening to the breeze telling them the secrets of life.

There would be a fragrance about the white dress and the laces, and ermine, and the silk things that you could not see,—­a fragrance as mysterious as the rustling, for it would seem to belong to the girl, and not to have come from any bottle, or bag of sachet powder.  A sweet, fresh, indefinable fragrance, like the smell of a tea rose after rain.

They would have walked together, they two, and he would have been so proud of her, that every time a passer-by cast a glance of admiration at her face, he would feel that he could hardly keep in a laugh of joy, or a shout, “She is mine—­she is mine.”

But he had been poor in the old days, when from far away he had thought of this terrace, and the moon of honey and roses, and love.  It had all been a dream, then, as it was now; too sweet ever to come true.