And under M. Gandinot's banner she had served ever since.
* * * * *
Five minutes' walk took her to the Promenade des Anglais, that
apparently endless thoroughfare which is Roville's pride. The evening
was fine and warm. The sun shone gaily on the white-walled houses, the
bright Gardens, and the two gleaming casinos. But Ruth walked
listlessly, blind to the glitter of it all.
Visitors who go to Roville for a few weeks in the winter are apt to
speak of the place, on their return, in a manner that conveys the
impression that it is a Paradise on earth, with gambling facilities
thrown in. But, then, they are visitors. Their sojourn comes to an end.
Ruth's did not.
A voice spoke her name. She turned, and saw her father, dapper as ever,
standing beside her.
'What an evening, my dear!' said Mr Warden. 'What an evening! Smell the
sea!'
Mr Warden appeared to be in high spirits. He hummed a tune and twirled
his cane. He chirruped frequently to Bill, the companion of his walks
abroad, a wiry fox-terrier of a demeanour, like his master's, both
jaunty and slightly disreputable. An air of gaiety pervaded his
bearing.
'I called in at the _mont-de-piete_ but you had gone. Gandinot
told me you had come here. What an ugly fellow that Gandinot is! But a
good sort.
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