the deep blue of the lake
and the pensive violet shadows; but this was like a burst of gorgeous
day after an existence in sweet, pale twilight. She rejoiced that she
had persisted in seeing the Riviera before passing into Italy.

It seemed that, after Nice, each stopping-place was prettier and more
flowery than the one before. She had no one to admire them with her, for
since luncheon, which Mary had taken early, Miss Wardropp had been in
another compartment playing the game with the little wheel and spinning
ivory ball. But after passing Villefranche harbour, Beaulieu drowned in
olives, and Eze under its old hill-village on a horn of rock, the
Australian girl came back, to exchange a cap of purple suede for her
cartwheel of a hat.

"The next station where the train stops will be Monaco," she announced.

"Oh, then you'll be getting out almost at once?" And Mary prepared to
say goodbye.

"Not yet. The station after Monaco: Monte Carlo--darling place! But the
principality begins at Monaco of course. I told you how I stayed three
days before I went to England. Almost everybody who lands at Marseilles
wants to run on to Monte for a flutter, in season or out."

Miss Wardropp put away a novel, and dusted a little powder over her
face, with the aid of a gold vanity-box. The train plunged through a
tunnel or two, and flashed out, giving a glimpse of Monaco's high red
rock with the Prince's palace half girdled by ruinous gray walls and
towers of ancient feudal days. Dodo was ready to go. She bade her
companion goodbye, and good luck in Florence. "Too bad you're not
getting out here!" she said, as they shook hands. And then Mary forgot
her in gazing at the Rock of Hercules, the red rock crowned with walls
as old as history, and jewelled with flowers. Close to shore the water
was green and clear as beryl, and iridescent blue as a peacock's breast
where the sea flowed past the breakwater. In the harbour were yachts
large and small, a trading ship or two, and fishing boats drawn up on a
narrow strip of beach. Across from the Rock, and joined to it by the
low-lying Condamine, was Monte Carlo, with the white Casino towers
pointing high above roofs and feathery banks of trees, like the horns of
a great animal crouched basking in the gay sunlight.

Mary remembered how Peter had told her the tale of Hercules landing
here: how he had come in a small boat, and claimed the rock and the
lovely semi-circle of coast for his own. "The gue