an American named Colebridge. We met years ago in the Argentine, and he considers that he has reason to be grateful for something in the past. Together, the two are a source of great entertainment to me. Judy becomes every moment more British, and he—well, he couldn't become more American. He admires Judy enormously, and I think he is ready to lay a not inconsiderable fortune at her feet. I wish I could remember their talk. Yesterday we motored to Grasse, and coming home we passed peasants returning from their work in the fields. Simple, contented people, with clothes colored like the earth.
"'In America,' says Mr. Colebridge, 'all these folks would own Fords.'
"'Then thank God for Europe!' says Judy; and so they go on, until at last Mr. Colebridge turns to me and says, 'Say, I guess I'm ready to agree to anything Miss Pendleton says. She's got more sense than any woman I ever met.' Which takes the wind out of Judy's sails. They make me feel years younger. Colebridge wears the most Philistine clothes, and never looks at the scenery. He sees nothing.
"Judy often goes to the Casino, and she tells me she saw Chiozzi there last night. He was with Mlle. Pauline, whom Judy describes as a