with rough tesselation, we
vied with each other in telling our charges that this was the old Roman
road to Gaul, the Aurelian Way, over which Julius Caesar, St. Catherine
of Siena, Dante, and other great ones passed. Then we showed them one of
Napoleon's old guns, covered with shells, as when it was fished out of
the sea. We enlarged upon the fact that there was no tree, shrub, or
blossom on the known face of the earth of which a specimen did not grow
at La Mortola; and when we had wandered for an hour in the garden
without seeing half there was to see, we climbed the long flight of
steps again, congratulating ourselves--Terry and I--that we had played
Dalmar-Kalm rather a neat trick. The crowd of villagers who had
clustered round our car outside the entrance gates would screen it from
the Prince as he flashed by, and he would go on and on, wondering how we
had contrived to get so far ahead.

Our way would take us, after passing through Ventimiglia, up the Roya
Valley which Terry had decided upon as a route because of its wild and
unspoiled beauty, different from anything that our passengers could have
seen in their brief experience of the Riviera. But as there were no inns
which offered decent entertainment for man or automobile within
reasonable distance, we were to lunch at Ventimiglia, and no arrangement
had been made with Dalmar-Kalm concerning this halt. His
confidence--perhaps well founded--in the superiority of his speed over
ours had led him to believe that he could pause at our side for
consultation whenever he wished. Therefore, we had left Cap Martin
without much discussion of plans. Mrs. Kidder was of opinion that we
would find him waiting in front of the "best hotel in Ventimiglia," with
an excellent luncheon ordered.

"The best hotel in Ventimiglia!" poor lady, she had an awakening before
her. Not only was there no Prince, but there was no best hotel. Old
Ventimiglia, in its huddled picturesqueness, must delight any man with
eyes in his head; new Ventimiglia must disgust any man with a vacancy
under his belt. As we sat in the shabby dining-room of a seventh-rate
inn (where the flies set an example of attentiveness the waiters did not
follow), pretending to eat macaroni hard as walking-sticks and veal
reduced to _chiffons_, I feared the courage of our employers would fail.
They could never, in all their well-ordered American lives, have known
anything so abominable as this experience into which we had lur