A very faint dull red crept suddenly over the pallor of the gigolo’s face. They were sitting out on a bench on the promenade, facing the ocean (in direct defiance on Mary’s part of all rules of conduct of respectable girls toward gigolos). Mary Hubbell had said rather brusque things before. But now, for the first time, the young man defended himself faintly.

“For us,” he replied in his exquisite French, “it is finished. For us there is nothing. This generation, it is no good. I am no good. They are no good.” He waved a hand in a gesture that included the promenaders, the musicians in the caf�s, the dancers, the crowds eating and drinking at the little tables lining the walk.

“What rot!” said Mary Hubbell, briskly. “They