“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 into 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 château 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
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