Though she was quite unaware of it, it was
those fifteen weeks spent on the Riviera, for the most part at Monte
Carlo, which had gradually caused Enid to argue herself into the belief
that she was justified in doing anything--_anything_ which might
contribute to the renewal of that delicious kind of existence--the only
life, from her point of view, worth living.
Her first husband's death in a motor accident had left her practically
penniless, as well as frightened and bewildered, and so she had committed
the mistake of marrying, almost at once, clever, saturnine Colonel
Crofton, a man over thirty years older than herself. His mad passion had
died down like a straw-fed flame, and when there had come, like a bolt
from their already grey sky, the outbreak of War, it had been a godsend
to them both.
Colonel Crofton had at once stepped into what had seemed to them both
a good income, with all sorts of delightful extras, and allowances,
attached to it. And while he was in France, at the back of the Front,
absorbed in his job, though resentful of the fact that he was not in
the trenches, Enid had shared a small flat in London with another young
and lonely wife.
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