There were German Barons and their wives, eager to forget their country’s recent war with France, their lineage dating back into antiquity, their pockets bulging with gold.

There were Grand Dukes from Russia, handsome, aristocratic and incredibly wealthy, who by their very appearance seemed to give an air of distinction to the gambling rooms and the cafés.

There were also visitors from England, men and women bearing ancient and honourable names, who stared curiously at the cosmopolitan crowd which thronged around them and who managed in some subtle way of their own to remain reserved and aloof however gay and congenial the atmosphere.

There were Rajahs from India, Sultans from Turkey, Señors from Spain, Beys from Algeria, the most elegant and distingué of the French beau monde, and a sprinkling of Americans – big, badly dressed men with their elegant, over dressed wives, who seemed a little ill at ease, but whose fortunes were fabulous.

Besides these were artists, professional gamblers, crooks, parasites and the hangers on who appear wherever there is a game of chance, and likely pickings.

And last, but not least, there were women, women of all nationalities, creeds, classes arid types of beauty – every one of them outstanding, every one of them worth a second, third or fourth glance, and every one of them adding something to the gaiety and beauty of the place by their very presence.

Lady Violet, looking round the dining room, thought she had never seen a more splendid array of jewellery. There were diamond tiaras which glittered and shone as if they were royal crowns, there were necklaces of emeralds and rubies and sapphires, ropes of pearls, pendants of aquamarines and amethysts, bracelets of turquoises and opals, brooches, earrings, lockets, diadems – all resplendent with precious gems, each a silent witness to a woman’s beauty. Lady Violet gave a little sigh.

‘I thought my emeralds were quite an adequate decoration until I came here this evening.’

Lord Drayton glanced at the necklace around her throat and at the long emerald ear rings which dangled from her small ears.

‘Yours are very fine stones,’ he said.

‘But insignificant beside those the Princess is wearing.’

He glanced across the room. A Polish Princess was literally blazing with emeralds, they crowned her head, encircled her neck, glittered on her wrists and fingers and almost covered the bodice of her low cut gown.

‘It is certainly difficult to compete with the Ossinpof collection,’ Sir Robert said, ‘but I daresay Her Highness would give them all to you if you could exchange ages at the same time.’

It was palpably true. The Princess was over fifty and doing her best to pretend that she was a mere twenty-five. She was rouged, dyed and corseted until she could hardly breathe, and the emeralds must have been little consolation for a youth which slipped away from her year by year.