The next morning revealed a world if anything more wonderful. Now all the whiteness and the brownness and the sharpness of the coast line were picked out by a brilliant sun. The bay glittered in the light, a rich indigo blue; and a fisherman putting forth to sea hoisted a golden sail. I was astonished to find now that the houses instead of being the drab and white of northern France were as like to be blue or yellow or green--and always there was a touch of color somewhere, blue window-sills ornamenting a white house, brown chimneys contrasting with a blue one, the charm of the Moorish arch and the Moorish lattice suggesting itself at different points--and always palms. I dressed and went below and out upon the balcony and through the garden to the water’s edge, sitting in the warm sun and tossing pebbles into the water. Flowers were in bloom here--blue and yellow blossoms--and when Barfleur came down we took a delightful morning walk up a green valley which led inland between hills. No northern day in June could have rivaled in perfection the wonder of this day; and we talked of the stagey make-believe of Parisian night-life as contrasted with this, and the wonder of spring generally. “I should think the whole world would want to live here in winter,” I said. “The fact is,” replied Barfleur, “what are called the best people do not come here so much nowadays.” “Where do they go?” I asked. “Oh, Switzerland is now the thing in winter--the Alps and all that relates to them. The new rich have overdone this, and it is becoming a little banal.” “They cannot alter the wonder of the climate,” I replied.