“In what way have I shown myself sybaritic?” I charged him with various crimes. My amicable lecture was interrupted by the arrival of rolls and coffee and we decided to take breakfast in the company of Scorp. We knocked at his door. “_Entrez!_” There he was, propped up in bed, his ascetic face crowned by his brownish black hair and set with those burning dark eyes--a figure of almost classic significance. “Ah!” he exclaimed grimly, “here he comes. The gourmet’s guide to Europe!” “Now, do be cheerful this morning, Scorp, do be,” cooed Barfleur. “Remember it is a lovely morning. You are on the Riviera. We are going to have a charming time.” “You are, anyway!” commented Scorp. “I am the most sacrificial of men, I assure you,” commented Barfleur. “I would do anything to make you happy. We will go up to La Turbie to-day, if you say, and order a charming lunch. After that we will go to Eze, if you say, and on to Nice for dinner, if you think fit. We will go into the Casino there for a little while and then return. Isn’t that a simple and satisfactory program? Dreiser and I will walk up to La Turbie. You can join us at one for lunch. You think he ought to see Eze, don’t you?” “Yes, if there isn’t some Café de Paris hidden away up there somewhere where you can gormandize again. If we can just manage to get you past the restaurants!” So it was agreed: Barfleur and I would walk; Sir Scorp was to follow by train. As the day was balmy and perfect, all those special articles of adornment purchased in London for this trip were extracted from our luggage and duly put on--light weight suits, straw hats and ties of delicate tints; and then we set forth. The road lay in easy swinging S’s, up and up past terraced vineyards and garden patches and old stone cottages and ambling muleteers with their patient little donkeys heavily burdened. Automobiles, I noticed, even at this height came grumbling up or tearing down--and always the cypress tree with its whispering black-green needles and the graceful umbrella tree made artistic architectural frames for the vistas of the sea. Here and now I should like to pay my tribute to the cypress tree. I saw it later in all its perfection at Pisa, Rome, Florence, Spello, Assisi and elsewhere in Italy, but here at Monte Carlo, or rather outside of it, I saw it first. I never saw it connected with anything tawdry or commonplace and wherever it grows there is dignity and beauty. It is not to be seen anywhere in immediate contact with this feverish Casino world of Monte Carlo. It is as proud as beauty itself, as haughty as achievement. By old ruins, in sacred burial grounds, by worn gates and forgotten palaces it sways and sighs. It is as mournful as death--as somber in its mien as great age and experience--a tree of the elders. Where Rome grew it grew, and to Greek and Roman temples in their prime and pride it added its sacred company.