At the top of the steps she paused and filled her lungs.

It was a still, moonless night, and the stars hung low down, like diamonds on a canopy of black velvet.

They made the flaring lights of the terrace of the Hotel and Cafe de Paris look tawdry and meretricious.
"I hate them," she said, pointing to the latter.
"Stars are better," said her companion.
She turned on him swiftly.
"How did you know I was making comparisons ?" "I felt it," he murmured.
They walked slowly down the steps.

At the bottom a carriage and pair seemed to rise mysteriously out of the earth.
"'Ave a drive?
Ver' good carriage," said a voice out of the dimness.

Monte Carlo cabmen are unerring in their divination of the Anglo-Saxon.
Why not?
The suggestion awoke in her an instant craving for the true beauty of the land.