“Oh, leave the wretched gipsies alone!” I begged.  “Who cares, now?  If you say anything, they may call us as witnesses at St. Remy or some town where we don’t want to stop.  Let them go.”

“I suppose we might as well,” he said, “for we can’t prove anything worth proving.  Come, then.”  He slipped some money into the guide’s hand, and thanked him for his courtesy and kindness.  But another pang shot through my remorseful heart.  More money spent by this man for me, when he had so little, and had lost the engagement which, though unworthy his rank in life, was the only present means he had of earning a livelihood.  I came, obeying in forlorn silence, and could not answer when he tried to cheer me up as we walked down to the Hotel Monte Carlo.  There stood the Aigle in charge of a youth from the inn, and there was more money to be paid to him.  I wanted to give it, but saw that if I insisted Mr. Dane would be vexed.

He suggested putting me inside, as the air was now very cold, with the chill that falls after sunset; but I refused.  “I want to sit by you!” I implored, and he said no more.  With the glass cage behind us empty, and the great acetylene lamps alight, the Aigle turned and flew down the hill.

CHAPTER XVI

For some time we did not speak, but my thoughts moved more quickly than the beating of the engine.  At last I said meekly, “Of course, I may as well consider myself discharged, too.  And even if I weren’t, I should go.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Mr. Dane answered.  “It was the first thought that came into my head when the row began.  It isn’t likely she’ll want you to leave, because she won’t like getting on without a maid.  I think, in the circumstances, unless she is brutal, you’d better stay with her till your friends can receive you.  Someone must come forward and help you now.”

“I wouldn’t ask anyone but Pamela, who’s gone to America,” I protested.  “Besides, I can’t stand Lady Turnour after what’s happened—­with you gone.”

(As I said this, I remembered again how I had dreaded to associate with the chauffeur, and planned to avoid him.  It was rather funny, as it had turned out; but somehow I didn’t feel like laughing.)

“Of course you won’t mind,” I went on.  “It’s different for a man.  If you were left and I going, it wouldn’t matter, because you’d have the car.  But I’ve nothing—­except Lady Turnour’s ‘transformation.’  Luckily, she won’t want me to stop.”

“I think she will,” he said, “because your only fault was in having an accident.  You weren’t impudent, as she thinks I was in refusing to drive the car.  Also in letting her see that I thought her willingness to leave a young girl in a place like this, alone for hours (she did propose to let me drive back for you) was the most brutal thing I’d ever heard of.”

“Oh, how good you were, to sacrifice yourself like that for me!” I exclaimed.