She was better after dinner, however, so I knew she must have been well fed:  and in the morning, after a gorgeous dejeuner on the loggia, she was in an amiable mood to plan for the day’s journey.

At ten o’clock the chauffeur arrived, and was shown up to the Turnours’ vast Louis XVI. salon.  He looked as much like an icily regular, splendidly null, bronze statue as a flesh-and-blood young man could possibly look, for that, no doubt, is his conception of the part of a well-trained “shuvver”; and he did not seem aware of my existence as he stood, cap in hand, ready for orders.

As for me, I flatter myself that I was equally admirable in my own metier.  I was assorting a motley collection of guide-books, novels, maps, smelling-salts, and kodaks when he came in, and was dying to look up, but I remained as sweetly expressionless as a doll.

The bronze statue respectfully inquired how its master would like to make a little detour, instead of going by way of Aix-en-Provence to Avignon, as arranged.  Within an easy run was a spot loved by artists, and beginning to be talked about—­Martigues on the Etang de Berre, a salt lake not far from Marseilles—­said to be picturesque.  The Prince of Monaco was fond of motoring down that way.

At the sound of a princely name her ladyship’s mind made itself up with a snap.  So the change of programme was decided upon, and curious as to the chauffeur’s motive, I questioned him when again we sat shoulder to shoulder, the salt wind flying past our faces.

“Why the Etang de Berre?” I asked.

“Oh, I rather thought it would interest you.  It’s a queer spot.”

“Thank you.  You think I like queer spots—­and things?”

“Yes, and people.  I’m sure you do.  You’ll like the Etang and the country round, but they won’t.”

“That’s a detail,” said I, “since this tour runs itself in the interests of the femme de chambre and the chauffeur.”

“We’re the only ones who have any interests that matter.  It’s all the same to them, really, where they go, if I take the car over good roads and land them at expensive hotels at night.  But I’m not going to do that always.  They’ve got to see the Gorge of the Tarn.  They don’t know that yet, but they have.”

“And won’t they like seeing it?”

“Lady Turnour will hate it.”

“Then we may as well give it up.  Her will is mightier than the sword.”

“Once she’s in, there’ll be no turning back.  She’ll have to push on to the end.”

“She mayn’t consent to go in.”

“Queen Margherita of Italy is said to have the idea of visiting the Tarn next summer.  Think what it would mean to Lady Turnour to get the start of a queen!”

“You are Machiavelian!  When did you have this inspiration?”

“Well, I got thinking last night that, as they have plenty of time—­almost as much time as money—­it seemed a pity that I should whirl them along the road to Paris at the rate planned originally.  You see, though there are plenty of interesting places on the way mapped out—­you’ve been to Tours, you say—­”