“It was Sir Samuel’s fault,” I contradicted him.

“No.  Whatever goes wrong with the car is always the chauffeur’s fault.  Sir Samuel wanted me to do a foolish thing, and I oughtn’t to have done it.  I had your life to think of—­”

“And theirs.”

“Theirs, of course.  But I would have thought of yours first.”

It made my heart feel as warm as a bird in a nest to be complimented by the man at the helm for presence of mind, and then to hear that already I’d gained a friend to whom my life was of some value.  Since my mother died, there has been no one for whom I’ve come first.

I wanted badly to do something to show my gratitude, but could think of nothing except that, by and by, when we knew each other better, I might offer to sew on his buttons or mend his socks.

CHAPTER IX

“I suppose we’ll meet by-and-by at dinner?” I said (I’m afraid rather wistfully) to the chauffeur as he drove the car up a steep hill to the door of La Reserve, on The Corniche.

“Well, no,” he answered, “because you needn’t fear anything disagreeable here, and I’m going to stop at a less expensive place.  You see, I pay my own way, and as I really have to live on my screw, it doesn’t run to grand hotels.  This one is rather grand; but you will be all right, because, although it’s a famous place for food, at this season few people stop overnight, and I’ve found out through the telephone that the Turnours are the only ones who have taken bedrooms.  That means you’ll have your dinner and breakfast by yourself.”

“Oh, that will be nice!” I said, trying to speak as if I delighted in the thought of solitude and reflection.  “I wish I were paying my own way, too; but I couldn’t do it on fifty francs a month, could I?”

“Fifty francs a month!” he echoed, astonished.  “Is that your compensation for being a slave to such a woman?  By Jove, it makes me hot all over, to think that a girl like you should—­”

“Well, this trip is thrown in as additional compensation,” I reminded him.  “And thanks to you and your kindness, I believe I’m going to find my place more than tolerable.”

The car stopped, and duty began.  I couldn’t even turn and say good night to the chauffeur, as I walked primly into the hotel, laden with my mistress’s things.

She and Sir Samuel had the best rooms in the house, a suite big enough and grand enough for a king and queen, with a delightful loggia overlooking the high garden and the sea.  But of course Lady Turnour would die rather than seem impressed by anything, and would probably pick faults if she were invited to sleep at Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle—­a contingency which I think unlikely.  She was snappish with hunger, and did not trouble to restrain her temper before me.  Poor Sir Samuel!  It is he who has snatched her from her lodging-house, to lead her into luxury, because of his faithful love of many years; and this is the way she rewards him!  If I’d been in his place, and had a javelin handy, I think I might suddenly have become a widower.