“This happened in Provence, when I was about as old as Marsham there—­and every bit as romantic.  I was there with Carroll—­you remember poor old Carroll and what a blade of a boy he was—­as romantic as four Marshams rolled into one. (Excuse me, Marsham, won’t you?  It’s a romantic tale, you see, or at least the setting is.) ...  We were in Provence, Carroll and I; twenty-four or thereabouts; romantic, as I say; and—­and this happened.

“And it happened on the top of a whole lot of other things, you must understand, the things that do happen when you’re twenty-four.  If it hadn’t been Provence, it would have been somewhere else, I suppose, nearly, if not quite as good; but this was Provence, that smells (as you might say) of twenty-four as it smells of argelasse and wild lavender and broom....

“We’d had the dickens of a walk of it, just with knapsacks—­had started somewhere in the Ardeche and tramped south through the vines and almonds and olives—­Montelimar, Orange, Avignon, and a fortnight at that blanched skeleton of a town, Les Baux.  We’d nothing to do, and had gone just where we liked, or rather just where Carroll had liked; and Carroll had had the De Bello Gallico in his pocket, and had had a notion, I fancy, of taking in the whole ground of the Roman conquest—­I remember he lugged me off to some place or other, Pourrieres I believe its name was, because—­I forget how many thousands—­were killed in a river-bed there, and they stove in the water-casks so that if the men wanted water they’d have to go forward and fight for it.  And then we’d gone on to Arles, where Carroll had fallen in love with everything that had a bow of black velvet in her hair, and after that Tarascon, Nimes, and so on, the usual round—­I won’t bother you with that.  In a word, we’d had two months of it, eating almonds and apricots from the trees, watching the women at the communal washing-fountains under the dark plane-trees, singing Magali and the Que Cantes, and Carroll yarning away all the time about Caesar and Vercingetorix and Dante, and trying to learn Provencal so that he could read the stuff in the Journal des Felibriges that he’d never have looked at if it had been in English....

“Well, we got to Darbisson.  We’d run across some young chap or other—­Rangon his name was—­who was a vine-planter in those parts, and Rangon had asked us to spend a couple of days with him, with him and his mother, if we happened to be in the neighbourhood.  So as we might as well happen to be there as anywhere else, we sent him a postcard and went.  This would be in June or early in July.  All day we walked across a plain of vines, past hurdles of wattled cannes and great wind-screens of velvety cypresses, sixty feet high, all white with dust on the north side of ’em, for the mistral was having its three-days’ revel, and it whistled and roared through the cannes till scores of yards of ’em at a time were bowed