I was constantly forgetting in our peregrinations about the neighborhood how small the Principality of Monaco is. I am sure it would fit nicely into ten city blocks. A large portion of Monte Carlo encroaches on French territory--only the Casino, the terrace, the heights of Monaco belong to the Principality. One-half of a well-known restaurant there, I believe, is in Monaco and the other half in France. La Turbie, on the heights here, the long road we had come, almost everything in fact, was in France. We went into the French post-office to mail cards and then on to the French restaurant commanding the heights. This particular restaurant commands a magnificent view. A circle about which the automobiles turned in front of its door was supported by a stone wall resting on the sharp slope of the mountain below. All the windows of its principal dining-room looked out over the sea, and of the wonderful view I was never weary. The room had an oriental touch, and the white tables and black-coated waiters accorded ill with this. Still it offered that smartness of service which only the French restaurants possess. Barfleur was for waiting for Scorp who had not arrived. I was for eating, as I was hungry. Finally we sat down to luncheon and we were consuming the sweet when in he came. His brownish-black eyes burned with their usual critical fire. If Sir Scorp had been born with a religious, reforming spirit instead of a penchant for art he would have been a St. Francis of Assisi. As it was, without anything to base it on, except Barfleur’s gormandizing propensities, he had already established moral censorship over our actions. “Ah, here you are, eating as usual,” he observed with that touch of lofty sarcasm which at once amused and irritated me. “No excursion without a meal as its object.” “Sit down, El Greco,” I commented, “and note the beautiful view. This should delight your esthetic soul.” “It might delight mine, but I am not so sure about yours. Barfleur would certainly see nothing in it if there were not a restaurant here--ha!” “I found a waiter here who used to serve me in the Café Royal in London,” observed Barfleur cheerfully. “Now we can die content,” sighed Scorp. “We have been recognized by a French waiter on the Riviera. Ha! Never happy,” he added, turning to me, “unless he is being recognized by waiters somewhere--his one claim to glory.”