He thought of the dream, and of the boy who had dreamed it, half bitterly, half sadly, on this his first day in the place of the dream.

He was rich—­as rich as he had seen himself in the impossible picture, and it would have been almost too easy to buy the white dress, and the ermine, and the pearls.  But there was no one for whom he would have been happy to buy them.  The most beautiful girl in the world was not in his world now; and none other had had the password to open the door of his heart since she had gone out, locking it behind her.

“She would have liked the auto,” he said to himself.  And then, a moment later, “I wonder why I came?”

It was a perfect Riviera day.  Everybody in Monte Carlo who was not in the Casino was sauntering on the terrace in the sun; for it was that hour before luncheon when people like to say, “How do you do?—­How nice to meet you here!” to their friends.

The young man from far away had not, so far as he knew, either enemies or friends at Monte Carlo.  He was not conscious of the slightest desire to say “How do you do?” to any of the pretty people he met, although there is a superstition that every soul longs for kindred souls at Christmas time.

He had not been actively unhappy before he left the Hotel de Paris and strolled out on the terrace, to have his first sight of Monte Carlo by daylight.  Always, there was the sore spot in his heart, and often it ached almost unbearably at night, or when the world hurt him with its beauty, which he must see without Her; but usually he kept the spot well covered up; and being healthy as well as young, he had cultivated that kind of contentment which Thoreau said was only desperate resignation in disguise.  He took an interest in books, in politics, and sport and motor cars, and a good many other things; but on the terrace, the blue of the sea; the opal lights on the mountains; the gold glint of oranges among green, glittering leaves; the pearly glimmer of white roses thrown up like a spray against the sky, struck at his heart, and made the ache come back more sharply than it had for a long time.

If he had been a girl, tears would have blinded his eyes; but being what he was, he merely muttered in anger against himself, “Hang it all, what a wretched ass I am,” and turning his back on the sea, made his way as fast as he could into the Casino.

It was close upon twelve o’clock, and the “Rooms” had been open to the public for two hours.  The “early gamblers” thronging the Atrium to wait till the doors opened, had run in and snatched seats for themselves at the first tables, or marked places to begin at eleven o’clock, if crowded away from the first.  Later, less ardent enthusiasts had strolled in; and now, though it was not by any means the “high season” yet, there were rows of players or lookers on, three deep round each table.

The young man was from the South—­though a South very different from this.  He had the warm blood of Virginia in his veins, and just so much of the gambler’s spirit as cannot be divided from a certain recklessness in a man with a temperament.  He had seen plenty of life in his own country, in the nine years since he was twenty, and he knew all about roulette and trente et quarante, among other things desirable and undesirable.