This kept up until bedtime with Barfleur offering solemn explanations of why he had come here, why it would be advisable for us to refresh ourselves at the fountain of simple scenery after the fogs of London and the theatric flare of Paris. He had a fine argument for the Bella Riva as a dwelling-site: it was just half way between Monte Carlo and Mentone, it commanded all the bay on which Monte Carlo stood. Cap Martin, with the hotel of that name, here threw its sharp rocky point far out into the sea. A car-line passed the door. In a half-hour either way we could be in either Mentone or Monte Carlo. “Who wants to be in Mentone?” demanded Sir Scorp. “I would rather be an hour away from it instead of half an hour. If I came to see Monte Carlo I would not be bothering about Mentone. I, for one, will not go.” It was not long before I learned that Scorp did much protesting but equally much following. The patient silence of Barfleur coupled with direct action at the decisive moment usually won. Scorp’s arguments did result in one thing. The next morning, instead of idling in the sun and taking a carriage ride over the adjacent range, we gathered all our belongings and deposited them at the near-by station, while Barfleur and I climbed to the top of an adjacent hill where was an old water-pool, to have a last look at the lovely, high-colored, florescent bay of Agay. Then the long train, with drawing-room cars from all parts of Europe rolled in; and we were off again. Barfleur called my attention as we went along to the first of the umbrella trees--of which I was to see so many later in Italy--coming into view in the occasional sheltered valleys which we were passing, and later those marvels of southern France and all Italy, the hill cities, towering like great cathedrals high in the air. I shall never forget the impression the first sight of one of these made on me. In America we have nothing save the illusion of clouds over distant landscapes to compare with it. I was astonished, transported--the reality was so much more wonderful than the drawings of which I had seen so many. Outside the car windows the sweeping fronds of the palms seemed almost to brush the train, hanging over white enclosures of stone. Green shutters and green lattices; red roofs and bright blue jardinières; the half-Italianized Frenchman with his swarthy face and burning eyes. Presently the train stopped at Cannes. I struck out to walk in the pretty garden which I saw was connected with the depot, Barfleur to send a telegram, Scorp to show how fussy and cantankerous he could be. Here were long trains that had come from St. Petersburg via Vilna and Vienna; and others from Munich, Berlin and Copenhagen with diners labeled “_Speisewagen_” and sleepers “_Schlafwagen_.” Those from Paris, Calais, Brussels, Cherbourg bore the imposing legend, “_Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits et des Grands Express Européens_.” There was a long black train rumbling in from the south