les?" "You
surprise me," with which I was accustomed to assist him, when, after
going all around the circle in vain for an attentive eye, he came at
last to mine, which are not beautiful, but always, I trust, friendly to
the friendless. Yet so self-deceived is man that I have no doubt but
that if at this moment interrogated as to his best listener during that
journey and sojourn at Mentone, he would immediately reply, "Miss
Trescott."

People were coming in and out of the room while we were there, the
light Continental "first breakfast" of rolls and coffee or tea not
detaining them long. Two, however, were evidently loitering, under a
flimsy pretext of reading the unflimsy London _Times_, in order to have
a longer look at Janet; these two were Englishmen. Was Janet, then,
beautiful? That is a question hard to answer. She was a slender,
graceful girl with a delicate American face, small, well-poised head,
sweet voice, quiet manner, and eyes--well, yes, the expression in
Janet's eyes was certainly a remarkable endowment. It could never be
fixed in colors; it cannot be described in ink; it may perhaps be
faintly indicated as each gazing man's ideal promised land. And this
centre was surrounded by such a blue and childlike unconsciousness that
every new-comer tumbled in immediately, as into a blue lake, and never
emerged.

"You have been roaming, Professor," said Mrs. Trescott, as he took his
seat; "you have a fine breezy look of the sea. I heard the wa-ash,
wa-ash, upon the beach all night. But _you_ have been out early,
communing with Aurora. Do not deny it."

The Professor had no idea of denying it. "I have been as far as the West
Bay," he said, taking a roll. "Mentone has two bays, the East, where we
are, and the West, the two being separated by the port and the 'old
town.' Behind us, on the north, extends the double chain of mountains,
the first rising almost directly from the sea, the second and higher
chain behind, so that the two together form a screen, which completely
protects this coast. Thus sheltered, and opening only towards the south,
the bays of Mentone are like a conservatory, and _we_ like the plants
growing within." (This, for the Professor, was quite poetical.)

[Illustration: THE OLD TOWN]

"I have often thought that to be a flower in a conservatory would be a
happy lot," observed Janet. "One could have of the perfumes, sit
still all the time, and never be out in the rain."

"I trust, Miss Tresc