“I don’t understand a word of what you are talking about,” declared the dancer.

“Portrait of a lady with grey eyes,” murmured Derek reflectively. “Just as well I am never likely to meet her again.”

“Why?”

“She might bring me bad luck. Women do.”

Mirelle slipped quietly from her couch, and came across to him, laying one long, snakelike arm round his neck.

“You are foolish, Dereek,” she murmured. “You are very foolish. You are beau garçon , and I adore you, but I am not made to be poor⁠—no, decidedly I am not made to be poor. Now listen to me; everything is very simple. You must make it up with your wife.”

“I am afraid that’s not going to be actually in the sphere of practical politics,” said Derek drily.