He showed me his library, the boudoirs which were never occupied, the gallery of modern French paintings, the Indian tea-room, and the great conservatory, whence we walked out upon the terrace and looked down upon the lights of the gay winter city lying at our feet, and that flash of white brilliance which ever and anon shoots across the tranquil sea and marks the dangerous headland at Antibes. The night was lovely--one of those dry, bright, perfect nights which occur so often on the Riviera in January. At sundown the air is always damp and treacherous, but when darkness falls it is no longer dangerous even to those with the most delicate constitutions. “How beautiful!” I ejaculated, standing at his side and watching the great white moon slowly rising from the sea. “What a fairyland!” “Yes. It is beautiful. The Riviera is, I believe, the fairest spot that God has created on this earth,” and then he sighed as though world-weary. Presently, when we had been chatting a few minutes, he suggested that we should re-enter the house, as he feared that I, being in décolleté, might catch a chill. “I have a hobby,” he said, “the only thing which prevents me from becoming absolutely melancholy. Would you care to see it?” “Oh, do show it to me,” I said, at once interested. “Then come with me,” he exclaimed, and led me through two long passages to a door which he unlocked with a tiny master-key upon his chain. “This is my private domain,” he laughed. “No one is allowed here, so you must consider yourself very privileged.” “That I certainly do,” I responded, and as he entered he switched on the electric light, displaying to my astonished gaze a large place fitted up as a workshop with lathes, tools, wheels, straps, and all sorts of mechanical contrivances. “This room is a secret,” he said with a smile. “If the fine people who sometimes patronize me with visits thought that I actually worked here they’d be horrified.” “Then do you actually work?” I inquired, surprised. “Certainly. Having nothing otherwise to occupy my time when I severed myself from the works, I took to turning. I was a turner by trade years ago, you know.” I looked at him in wonderment. People had said he was eccentric, and this was evidently one of his eccentricities. He had secretly established a great workshop within that princely mansion. “Would you like to see how I can work?” he asked, noticing my look of wonder. “Well, watch--excuse me,” and he threw off his jacket, and having raised a lever which set one of the lathes at work he seated himself at it, selected a piece of ivory, and placed it in position. “Now,” he laughed, looking towards me, “what shall I make you? Ah, I know, an object useful to all you ladies is a box for your powder-puff--eh?” “You seem to be fully aware of feminine mysteries, Mr. Keppel,” I laughed. “Well, you see, I was married once,” he answered. “But in those days my poor Mary didn’t want face-powder, bless her!”