and dashing, those heroes, and as
we threaded intricate fortifications, I found myself looking out for at
least one or two of them.

Yes, they were there, plenty of heroes, almost all handsome, with
splendid dark eyes that searched flatteringly to penetrate the mystery
of my talc triangle. They didn't know, poor dears, that there was
nothing better than a lady's-maid behind it. What a waste of gorgeous
glances!

I laughed to myself at the fancy, and the chauffeur sitting beside me
wanted to know why; but I wouldn't tell him. One really can't say
everything to a man one has known only for a day. And yet, the curious
part is, I feel as if we had been the best of friends for a long time. I
never felt like that toward any man before, but I suppose it is because
of the queer resemblance in our fates.

Beyond Toulon we had to slow down for a long procession of gypsy
caravans on their way to town; quaint, moving houses, with strings of
huge pearls that were gleaming onions, festooned across their blue or
green doors and windows; and out from those doors and windows wonderful
eyes gazed at us--eyes full of secrets of the East, strange eyes, more
fascinating in their passing glance than those of the gay young heroes
at Toulon.

So we flew on to the village of Ollioules, and into the dim mountain
gorge of the same musical name. The car plunged boldly through the veil
of deep blue shadow which hung, ghostlike, over the serpentine curves of
the white road; and out of its twilight-mystery rose always the faint
singing of a little river that ran beside us, under the steep gray wall
of towering rock.

At the top of the gorge a surprise of beauty waited for us as our way
led along a sinuous road cut into the swelling mountain-side. Far off
lay the sea, with an army of tremendous purple rocks hurling themselves
headlong into the molten gold of the water, like a drove of mammoths.
All the world was gold and royal purple. Hills and mountains stood up,
darkly violet, out of a golden plain, against a sky of gold; and it was
such a picture as only Heaven or Turner could have painted.

Nor was there any break in the varied splendor of the scene and of the
sun's setting until we came to the dull-looking town of Aubagne. After
that, the Southern darkness swooped in haste, and while we wound
tediously through the immense, never-ending traffic of Marseilles, it
"made night." All the length and breadth of the Cannebiere burst into
brillian