uld that be blackmail?)

Silently the chauffeur took the cup from my frightened fingers, and
marched off with it into the hotel, without a "by your leave" or "with
your leave."

"My word, your chauffeur might have better manners!" grumbled Lady
Turnour to Sir Samuel, as she climbed into the car; but there was no
scolding when the rude young man came briskly back, looking supremely
unconscious of having given offence.

"Now we must make good time to Marseilles, if we're to get there for
dinner," he said, when he had started the car, and taken his place. "We
shall stop there to-night, or rather, just outside the town, in one of
the nicest hotels on earth, as you will see."

"Whose choice?" I asked.

"Mine," he laughed, "but I don't think Sir Samuel knows that!"

Down to Hyeres we floated again, on the wings of the Aigle, I looking
longingly across the valley where the old town climbed a citadeled
hill, and lay down at the foot of a sturdy though crumbling castle. If
this were _really_ my own tour, as I am trying to play it is, I would
have commanded a long stop at Costebelle, to make explorations of the
region round about. I can imagine no greater joy than to be able to stay
at beautiful places as long as one wished, and to keep on doing
beautiful things till one tired of doing them.

But life is a good deal like a big busybody of a policeman, continually
telling us to get up and move on!

Our world was a flower world again, ringed in like a secret fairyland,
with distant mountains of extraordinarily graceful shapes--charming
lady-mountains; and as far as we could see the road was cut through a
carpet of pink, white, and golden blossoms destined by and by for the
markets of Paris, London, Berlin, and Vienna.

Before I thought it could be so near, we dashed into Toulon, a very
different Toulon from the Toulon of the railway station, where I
remembered stopping a few mornings (which seemed like a few years) ago.
Now, it looked a noble and impressive place, as well as a tremendously
busy town; but my eye climbed to the towery heights above, wondering on
which one Napoleon--a smart young officer of artillery--placed the
batteries that shelled the British out of the harbour, and gained for
him the first small laurel leaf of his imperial crown.

I thought, too, of all the French novels I'd read, whose sailor heroes
were stationed at Toulon, and there met romantic or sensational
adventures. They were always handsome