Half the night Mademoiselle had lain awake, wondering why the bird had not come hopping into the trap; and through the other half she had wondered anxiously if the bird would come to-morrow, with excuses which she might graciously accept.  At last she had fallen asleep and dreamed ecstatic dreams about diamond necklaces and thousand franc notes.  When the procession of three left the Beau Soliel on its way to the English Church, strings of diamonds were still being drawn through Mademoiselle’s head, charming though wreathed with patent curling pins.

It was half past eleven when she was waked by the Comtesse ringing for petits pains and chocolate.  A toilette was hastily made, without too much time being wasted on water; and Mademoiselle,—­all in black and white this morning, like a jeune fille in second mourning,—­hurried out to walk on the terrace at the fashionable hour.  If she did not find the truant there, she said to herself, she would go into the Casino; for he was sure to be in one place or the other at this time of day, even though it was Christmas.

She walked a little, but not much; for her high-heeled shoes were tight, and made her feel even more annoyed with the world and everyone in it—­except herself—­than she had been before she started.  Presently she sat down on one of the green benches, and arranged a “peace on earth, goodwill to men” expression which pinched her lips almost as painfully as her shoes pinched her toes.  She wore it unremittingly, nevertheless, even though many of the women who passed her, walking on the terrace, were prettier and younger and better dressed than she, and—­more grievous still—­were accompanied by agreeable looking men, while she sat alone scarcely glanced at by the promenaders.

She had just begun to think that she had better try the Casino, when down the steps from the upper terrace came three figures.  There was something familiar about them all, but to see them together made them more than strange.  Besides, the two she knew best were strange in another way.  Their habit was to be shabby, though neat; now, there was no one on the terrace as beautifully dressed as this tall young woman and the slim little girl.  No, it couldn’t be Madame Clifford and her petit choux; and yet—­and yet—­as they came nearer, near enough for Mademoiselle to recognise the man with them, she felt a horrid sensation as if something which she called her heart were dropping out of her bosom from sheer heaviness, leaving a vacuum.

[Illustration:  They came nearer, near enough for Mademoiselle to recognize the man with them.  Page 124.

—­Rosemary.]

Hardly knowing what she did, she sprang up from her bench while they were still far off, and began walking towards them.  There was a queer, singing noise in her head, and a feeling as if the skin were too tightly stretched across her forehead.  Still, she smiled, and winked her long lashes to keep her eyes moist and soft.