ntone it is more regular; you see, you can get
there from Mentone pretty much by accident. But from Bordighera it
has too much the appearance of being a preconcerted thing."

"It was particularly preconcerted here," put in the Academician with
a yawn, and Mrs. Dollond remarked innocently that people who
wintered in these places must have very singular ideas.

The prospect was increasing in beauty as they wound their way along
the historical road, now rendered obscure by the thick groves of
olives on either side, now varied by little glimpses of the sea,
which again they skirted from time to time, and so nearly that, as
Mrs. Dollond remarked, it was like driving along the sands. Rainham
identified spots for them as the prospect widened, naming sea-girt
Mortola with its snug chateau, Mentone lying placidly with its two
bays in the westering sun, and, now and again, notorious peaks of
the Alpes Maritimes which bounded the horizon beyond. At the
frontier bridge of St. Louis, where they alighted to meet the
requirements of the Douane, even Mrs. Dollond's frivolity was
changed into silent admiration of the savage beauty of the gorge.
They stood for a while leaning upon the desolate bridge, turning
reluctantly from the great beetling rocks of the ravine above to
gaze with strange qualms into the yawning precipice beneath. Rainham
pointed out the little thread of white which was the one dangerous
pathway down the gorge, confessing his sympathy with the fatal
fascination with which it had filled so many--he mentioned the name
of a young Englishman staying at Mentone the year before amongst the
number--at the ultimate cost of their lives.

"Horrible!" exclaimed Mrs. Dollond, retreating to the carriage,
which awaited them on the French side of the bridge. "I shall dream
of it to-night."

"I have dreamt of it," said Rainham simply. "When I was a boy I used
to dream of climbing to the edge of the world and falling over.
Nowadays, I dream of dropping over the Pont St. Louis: the sensation
is much the same."

"A very disagreeable one, I should think," said Mrs. Dollond,
settling herself in her wraps with a little shudder.

"No," said Rainham, with a smile. "I think, Mrs. Dollond, it was
rather nice: it was the waking up which was disagreeable."

They made their breakfast--a very late one--at Mentone, and dawdled
over it, Mr. Dollond having disappeared at the last moment, and been
found, after a lengthy search, sketching, in s