2.
Hugh lunched and lounged in Menton, until he felt a strange nostalgia for Monte Carlo come over him.
“Curious,” he reflected; “already the place has such a hold on me, I cannot leave it even for a few hours.”
He jumped into a big lemon-coloured motor bus and in half an hour was sitting in the Café de Paris.
“Hullo, old chap,” he heard a shrill voice say, and looked up to see Mr. Jarvie Tope. Mr. Tope seemed as if he had stepped from a band-box, a flawless figure of a well-dressed man.
“Hullo!” responded Hugh. “You’re looking well.”
Mr. Tope raised his jaunty panama.
“I should think so, sixty and still going strong. Getting younger instead of older. Oh, I’m a great boy, I am.”
“Come and have tea with me,” Hugh begged.
Mr. Tope sat down. Together they gazed at the brilliant scene. The air was bright with banners and exultant with music. Gay crowds promenaded in front of the Casino. An aeroplane swooped down, scaring the drowsy pigeons on the cornice. Men watched it through their monocles, women from under their tiny frilled sunshades. Under the striped umbrellas elegant demi-mondaines sipped their orangeades; professional dandies, slim and elegant, passed amid the green tables; and dancing girls, befurred and bejewelled, sauntered on their way to the Thé Dansant. It was a kaleidoscope of colour; a moving pattern of dainty costumes; an entertainment that never lost its interest.