Her Majesty's Minister by William le Queux

After luncheon, when Miss Foskett, as was usual, ascended to her room to take her afternoon nap, Edith managed to escape and accompany me for a walk. The hotel was crowded with visitors, mostly English, who had come South in search of sunshine. The Battle of Flowers was to be fought that day. The little place was gay with flags, the pavements covered with confetti, and there was everywhere that air of gaiety and irresponsibility that Carnival lends to every Italian town. In Carnival Bordighera is at her best, and the fun of the festa is fast and furious, without the rough horseplay and pellets of lime indulged in at Nice.

Edith had, however, seen the Battle of Flowers at Nice in the previous week, having gone over there for the day. As this was so, we resolved to climb the hill behind the town and wander through the grey olive-woods, away from the boisterous merrymakers. Up a steep road on the outskirts of the town in the direction of sunny Ospedaletti we climbed, and thence by a mule-track we ascended zig-zag until we entered the beautiful olive-groves. Seen through the grey-green trees with their twisted trunks, the panorama spread before us was truly wonderful, the whole line of rugged coast being in view for miles on either hand, the brown, bare rocks standing out in sharp contrast to the deep sapphire of the glassy sea. Although February, it was like a May day in England, the air flower-scented and balmy, the sun so warm that to walk in overcoats or wraps was impossible.