the artists
succeeded in offering some slight service to Mrs. Trescott which gave an
opportunity for opening a conversation. The taller of the two, called
"Verney" by his friend, advised for the afternoon an expedition up the
Cornice Road to the "Pont St. Louis," and on "to Italy."

"But that will be too far, will it not?" said Mrs. Trescott.

"Oh no; to Italy! to Italy!" said Janet, with enthusiasm. Verney now
explained that Italy was but ten minutes' walk from the hotel, and Janet
was, of course, duly astonished. But not more astonished than the
Professor, who, having told her the same fact not a half-hour before,
could not comprehend how she should so soon have forgotten it.

"And if we _are_ but 'ten minutes' walk from Italy'--a phrase so often
repeated--what of it?" said Miss Graves to Margaret. "We are simply ten
minutes' walk from a most uncleanly land." Miss Graves always wore a
gray worsted shawl, and took no wine; in spite of the sunshine,
therefore, she preserved a frosty appearance.

After breakfast Miss Elaine introduced herself to Mrs. Trescott. She had
met some Americans the year before; they were charming; they were from
Brazil; perhaps we knew them? She had always felt ever since that all
Americans were her dear, dear friends. She had an invalid mother
up-stairs (sharing her good opinion of Americans) who would be "very
pleased" to make our acquaintance; and hearing Pont St. Louis mentioned,
she assured Janet that it was a "very jolly place--very jolly indeed."
It ended in our going to the "jolly place," accompanied by the two
artists and Miss Elaine herself, who smiled upon us all, upon the rocks,
the sky, and the sea, in the most amiable and continuous manner. This
time we were not all on foot; one of the loose-jointed little Mentone
phaetons, with a great deal of driver and whip and very little horse,
had been engaged for Mrs. Trescott and Margaret. This left Mrs. Clary
and myself together (Miss Graves having remained at home), and Inness,
Baker, the Professor, Verney, and the other artist, whose name was
Lloyd, all trying to walk with Janet, while Miss Elaine devoted herself
in turn to the unsuccessful ones, and never from first to last perceived
the real situation.

We went eastward. Presently we passed a small house bearing the
following naive inscription in French on the side towards the road: "The
first villa built at Mentone, in 1855, to attract hither the strangers.
The sun, the sea, and