artists? A bathing season, he would have us believe,
and in consequence business, and in consequence
money. . . .'
He was patient, he listened to every objection, he
frowned, rubbed his chin and appeared to consider.
He frequently nodded: well, they ought to know best,
yet he could not but feel that a few pretty villas
just beyond the town on the road to the hills . . .
or say down near the beach to the left of the port.
The road-bed was not bad — as the place became
known people could easily reach it in motors. Why
not? The mountains? Well, but what of them?
People could reach Saint Loup by the Corniche.
But he did not wish to appear too aggressive—after all he
was only a recent arrival — still, he did feel that great
possibilities having once been foreseen should be
carefully prepared for. The shortage of houses was
a drawback, of course — a most serious drawback
when it came to tourists.
And as though fate were playing right into his
hands, who should arrive that summer but Beauvais,
the very man whose picture he had bought, and who
since that purchase had sprung into fame, thanks to
those first exhibits at the Salon. And following like
a tail in the wake of a comet, came quite a fair
number of lesser artists, all eager to paint, all willing
to pay within reason for decent accommodation.
Why, the little hotel near the station was crowded,
what with their models, their wives, and their
easels, a happening that had never been heard of
before —the proprietor was beside himself with
excitement.
At la Tarasque much vermouth was consumed
after bathing, but at night as the moon came up
drinks grew stronger. They were young these arrivals,
they were spendthrift and gay, so things started to
hum when, their work being over, the little violinist