She had loved the browns and cloudy grays, and 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.
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