he missed Edhart, the old maitre d'hotel who for a
decade had catered to his primitive American tastes in the matter of
foodstuffs with as much enthusiasm as if he had been a Parisian epicure.

The passing of Edhart did more to call Monte's attention to the fact
that in his own life a decade had also passed than anything else could
possibly have done. Between birthdays there is only the lapse each
time of a year; but between the coming and going of the maitre d'hotel
there was a period of ten years, which with his disappearance seemed to
vanish. Monte was twenty-two when he first came to Nice, and now he
was thirty-two. He became thirty-two the moment he was forced to point
out to the new management his own particular table in the corner, and
to explain that, however barbarous the custom might appear, he always
had for breakfast either a mutton chop or a beefsteak. Edhart had made
him believe, even to last year, that in this matter and a hundred
others he was merely expressing the light preferences of a young man.
Now, because he was obliged to emphasize his wishes by explicit orders,
they became the definite likes and dislikes of a man of middle age.

For relief Monte turned to the tennis courts, and played so much in the
next week that he went stale and in the club tournament put up the
worst game of his life. That evening, in disgust, he boarded the train
for Monte Carlo, and before eleven o'clock had lost five thousand
francs at roulette--which was more than even he could afford for an
evening's entertainment that did not entertain. Without waiting for
the croupier to rake in his last note, Monte hurried out and, to clear
his head, walked all the way back to Nice along the Cornice Road.
Above him, the mountains; below, the blue Mediterranean; while the road
hung suspended between them like a silver ribbon. Yet even here he did
not find content.

Monte visited the rooms every evening for the next three days; but, as
he did not play again and found there nothing more interesting than the
faces, or their counterparts, which he had seen for the past ten years,
the programme grew stupid.

So, really, he had no alternative but Paris, although it was several
weeks ahead of his schedule. As a matter of fact, it was several weeks
too early. The city was not quite ready for him. The trees in the
Champs Elysees were in much the condition of a lady half an hour before
an expected caller. The broad vista to the tr