table not far distant sat the German of the
previous afternoon, finishing a tolerably copious _dejeuner a la
fourchette_. As soon as he had scraped his plate quite clean and
finished the last dregs of his bottle of wine, he rose and took his way
to the Casino. After a few minutes' talk with my Fascinating Friend, I
suggested a stroll over to Monaco. He agreed, and we spent the whole day
together, loitering and lounging, talking and dreaming. We went to the
Casino in the afternoon to hear the concert, and I discovered my friend
to be a cultivated musician. Then we strolled into the gambling-room for
an hour, but neither of us played. The German was busy at one of the
roulette-tables, and seemed to be winning considerably. That evening I
dined with my friend at the table d'hote of his hotel. At the other end
of the table I could see the German sitting silent and unnoticing, rapt
in the joys of deglutition.

Next morning, by arrangement, my friend called upon me at my hotel, and
over one of his cigarettes, to which I was getting accustomed, we
discussed our plan for the day. I suggested a wider flight than
yesterday's. Had he ever been to Eza, the old Saracen robber-nest
perched on a rock a thousand feet above the sea, halfway between Monaco
and Villafranca? No, he had not been there, and after some consideration
he agreed to accompany me. We went by rail to the little station on the
seashore, and then attacked the arduous ascent. The day was perfect,
though rather too warm for climbing, and we had frequent rests among the
olive-trees, with delightfully discursive talks on all things under the
sun. My companion's charm grew upon me moment by moment. There was in
his manner a sort of refined coquetry of amiability which I found
irresistible. It was combined with a frankness of sympathy and interest
subtly flattering to a man of my unsocial habit of mind. I was conscious
every now and then that he was drawing me out; but to be drawn out so
gently and genially was, to me, a novel and delightful experience. It
produced in me one of those effusions of communicativeness to which, I
am told, all reticent people are occasionally subject. I have myself
given way to them some three or four times in my life, and found myself
pouring forth to perfect strangers such intimate details of feeling and
experience as I would rather die than impart to my dearest friend. Three
or four times, I say, have I found myself suddenly and inexplicably