where are the men of their word? Doing
what one does not want to do is a sad business. That is why Puritanism
is associated with gloom. On the terrace of the Villa Etoile no man
could want to look at a newspaper or a watch. Across the Gulf of La
Napoule lies Cannes. Beyond Cannes is the Cap d'Antibes. Mountains,
covered with snow and coming down to the sea in successive chains, form
the eastern horizon. Inland, Grasse is nestled close under them.
Seaward, the Iles de Lerins seem to float upon the water. For on
Sainte-Marguerite the line of demarcation between Mediterranean blue
and forest green is sharp, and Saint-Honorat, dominated by the soft
gray of the castle and abbey, is like a reflected cloud. Between
Theoule and Cannes the railway crosses the viaduct of the Siagne.
Through the arches one can see the golf course on which an English
statesman thought out the later phases of British Imperialism. To the
west, the Gulf of La Napoule ends in the pine-covered promontory of the
Esquillon. Except for a very small beach in front of the Theoule
hotel, the coast is rocky. From February to May our terrace outlook
competed successfully with duties elsewhere.

Young and old in Theoule have to make a daily effort to enjoy
educational and religious privileges. We wondered at first why the
school and church were placed on the promontory, a good mile and a half
from the town. But later we came to realize that this was a salutary
measure. The climate is insidious. A daily antidote against laziness
is needed. I was glad that I volunteered to take the children to
school at eight and two, and go after them at eleven and four, and that
they held me to it. In order to reach a passable route on the steep
wall of rock and pine, the road built by the Touring-Club de France
makes a bend of two kilometers in the valley behind Theoule. By taking
a footpath from the hotel, the pedestrian eliminates the bend in five
minutes. In spite of curves, the road is continuously steep and keeps
a heavy grade until it reaches the Pointe de l'Esquillon.

I never tired of the four times a day. Between the Villa Etoile and
the town was the castle, built on the water's edge. After Louis XIV it
became a soap factory, and was restored to its ancient dignity only
recently. I ought not to say "dignity," for the restorer was a baron
of industry, and his improvements are distressing. The entrance to the
park created on the inner side of the