CHAPTER II

Rather more than a fortnight later Miss Chillingworth, toying with a tea cup on the sun-flooded lawn outside Ciro’s, at Monte Carlo: “Marilla,” she cried, “I—I feel as if we’d never lived at Dulwich in our lives!” Marilla, waking out of a day-dream, nodded comprehendingly. She glanced about her, lazily taking in the details of the scene—the sunlight, the warmth, the scent of rare plants and flowers, the gayly-dressed folk, the black-bearded, white-toothed Algerian moving in and out amongst the crowd, offering brigh…