me as possible for his Parisian
luxuries." (Impossible to describe the accent which our Puritan
Professor gave to those two words.) "His little territory produced only
olives, oranges, and lemons. By his order the oranges and lemons were
taxed so heavily that the poor peasant owner made nothing from his toil;
his olives, also, must be ground at the 'Prince's mill,' where a higher
price was demanded than elsewhere. Finally an even more odious monopoly
was established: all subjects were compelled to purchase the 'Prince's
bread,' which, made from cheap grain bought on the docks of Marseilles
and Genoa, was often unfit to eat. So severe were the laws that any
traveller entering the principality must throw away at the boundary line
all bread he might have with him, and the captain of a vessel having on
board a single slice upon arrival in port was heavily fined. This state
of things lasted twenty-five years, during which period the Prince in
Paris spent annually his eighty thousand dollars, gained from this poor
little domain of eight or nine thousand souls." The Professor in his
heat stood still, and we all stood still with him. The Mentonnais,
looking down from their high windows and up from their dark little
doors, no doubt wondered what we were talking about; they little knew it
was their own story.

"A revolution made by bread. And ours was made by tea," observed Janet,
thoughtfully.

"We need now only one made by butter, to be complete," said Inness.

Again the Professor scrutinized him, but discovered nothing.

[Illustration: THE PALMS OF BORDIGHERA]

_I_, however, discovered something, although not from Inness; I
discovered why Janet had wished to pass a second time through that Rue
Longue. For here was the French artist sketching the old mansion, and
with him (she could not have known this, of course; but chance always
favored Janet) were the two Englishmen, the respectful gazers of the
breakfast-table, sketching also. There were therefore six artistic eyes
instead of two to dwell upon her as she approached, passed, and went
onward, her slender figure outlined against the light coming through the
archway beyond, old St. Julian's Gate, a remnant of feudal
fortification. Artists are not slack in the use of their eyes; an
"artistic gaze" is not considered a stare. I was obliged to repeat this
axiom to Baker, who did not appreciate it, but looked as though he would
like to go back and artistically demolish those g