glinting white against the sun.... Fairy bungalows nesting in tropic
gardens and waving welcome with their palm-fronds to the rushing
train.... The Baie des Anges laughing with sky and hills.... The
many-tunnelled cliff-route from Villefranche to Cap D'Ail, where moments
of darkness tease one to longing for the sight of the azure coves dotted
with white-winged yachts and foam-slashed motor-boats.... Europe's
silken, jewelled fringe!

But scenery made no appeal to Lars Larssen. Scenery would not help him
to the attainment of his great ambitions. Scenery was _no use_ to him.
His delight lay in men and women and the using of them. Business--the
turning of other men's energies to his own ends--was the very breath of
his being.

He was glad to reach the hectic crowdedness of the tiny principality of
Monaco--that triple essence of civilization and sensuous luxury. He felt
at home with the big idea that drew the whole world to the gaming tables
to pay homage to the goddess Fortune. For a moment the suggestion came
to him to buy up some beautiful islet and build a pleasure city on it
which should be a wonder of the world. He was making a note of it for
future consideration, when Olive and her father met him on the platform
at Monte Carlo.

"I thought perhaps you would bring John Rivière with you," said Olive
after they had exchanged greetings. A strong desire had sprung up to see
this mysterious relation of Clifford's, and to be balked of any passing
whim was keen annoyance to her.

"Bring a will-o'-the-wisp," answered Larssen.