How good to be in it, to be "in the picture" because one
had youth, and was not hideous to look upon. How good to be in a
motor-car. This last thought made the chorus at the end of each verse
for me. I was very glad I had put that advertisement in _The Riviera
Sun_, and that "Kid, Kidder, and Kiddest" had been before any one else
in answering it.

I could hear Terry telling Miss Destrey things, and I knew that if they
listened the others could hear him too. This was well, because an
unfailing flow of information was included in the five guineas a day,
and I should have been embarrassed had I, as the supposed owner of the
car, been called upon to supply it.

I listened with a lazy sense of proprietorship in the man, as my
chauffeur related the pretty legend of St. Agnes's ruined castle and the
handsome Pagan who had loved the Christian maiden; while he described
the exquisite walks to be found up hidden valleys among the serrated
mountains behind Mentone; and enlarged upon the charms of picnics with
donkeys and lunch-baskets under canopies of olives or pines, with a
carpet of violets and primroses.

He seemed well up in the history of the Grimaldis and that exciting
period when Mentone and legend-crusted Roquebrune had been under the
rule of tyrannical princes of that name, as well as Hercules's rock,
Monaco, still their own. He knew, or pretended to know, the precise date
when Napoleon III. filched Nice and Savoy from reluctant Italy as the
price of help against the hated Austrians. Altogether, I was so pleased
with the way in which he was beginning, that I should have been tempted
to raise his wages had he been my paid chauffeur.

We skimmed past Englishmen and English or American girls in Panama hats,
on their way to bathe or play tennis; on all hands we heard the English
tongue. Skirting the Old Town, piled high upon its narrow nose of land,
we entered the East Bay, and so climbed up to the French side of the
Pont St. Louis.

"Now for some red tape," explained Terry. "When I came to the Riviera
this season I had no idea of going further, and I'm sorry to say I left
my papers in London, where apparently they've disappeared. But as the
Countess doesn't care to come back into France, I hope it won't matter
much."

As he spoke, a _douanier_ lounged out of his little whitewashed lair,
and asked for that which Terry had just said he had not.

"I have no papers," Terry informed him, with a smile so agreeable that