Every foot of the Ducros’ property was carefully cultivated, with vineyards above on the terraced hillside, olive-yards below, and mulberry trees on the lower levels.  Our black mulberry, with its cloying, luscious fruit, is not the sort used for silkworms; it is the white mulberry, which does not fruit, that these clever little alchemists transmute into glossy, profitable cocoons of silk.  The Ducros made their own olive-oil, and their own admirable wine.

In that sun-drenched cup amongst the hills, roses bloomed all the year round.  I always see Nyons with my inner eyes from the terrace in front of the house, the air fragrant with roses, and the soothing gurgle of the fountain below in my ears as it splashed melodiously into its stone reservoir, the little town standing out a vivid yellow against the silver background of olive trees, and the fantastic outlines of the surrounding hills steeped in that wonderful deep Provencal blue.  In spite of its dullness, I and the three other pupils liked the place.  We all grew very fond of the charming Ducros family, we appreciated the wonderful beauty of the little spot, we climbed all the hills, and, above all, we had each hired a velocipede.  Not a bicycle (except that it certainly had two wheels); not a so-called “ordinary,” as those machines with one immensely high, shining, nickel-plated wheel and a little dwarf brother following it, were for some inexplicable reason termed; but an original antediluvian velocipede, a genuine “bone-shaker”:  a clumsy contrivance with two high wooden wheels of equal height, and direct action.  Even on the level they required an immense amount of muscle to drive them along, and up the smallest hill every ounce of available strength had to be brought into play.  They did not steer well, were very difficult to get on and off, and gave us some awful falls; still we got an immense amount of fun out of them, and we scoured all the surrounding country on them, until all four of us developed gigantic calves which would have done credit to any coal-heaver.

M. Ducros’ sister was a brilliant culinary genius such as is only found in France.  We were given truffled omelets, wonderful salads of eggs, anchovies, and tunny-fish, ducks with oranges and olives, and other delicacies of the Provencal cuisine prepared by a consummate artist, and those four English cubs termed them all “muck,” and clamoured for plain roast mutton and boiled potatoes.  It really was a case of casting pearls before swine!  Those ignorant hobbledehoys actually turned up their noses at the admirable “Cotes du Rhone” wine, and begged for beer.  In justice I must add that we were none of us used to truffles or olives, nor to the oil which replaces butter in Provencal cookery.  Mlle. Louise, the sister, was pained, but not surprised.  She had never left Nyons, and, from her experience of a long string of English pupils, was convinced that all Englishmen were savages.  They inhabited an island enveloped in dense fog from