That was before I saw it, for a respectful distance must be maintained between Those Who Pay and Those Who Work; but I guessed from the backs that something extraordinary was about to be revealed.  Then it was revealed, and I would have given a good deal to have some one to whom I could exclaim “Isn’t it glorious!”

Still, I am luckily very good chums with myself, and it is never too much trouble to think out new adjectives for my own benefit, or to indicate quaint points of view.  I was soon making the best of my own society in the way of intelligent companionship, shaking crumbs of half-forgotten history out of my memory, and finding a dried currant of fact here and there.  In convent days there was hardly a saint or saintess with whom I hadn’t a bowing acquaintance, and although a good many have cut me since, I can generally recall something about them, if necessary, as title worshippers can about the aristocracy.  I thought hard for a minute, and suddenly up rolled a curtain in my mind, and there in his niche stood St. Gilles.  He was born in Athens, and was a most highly connected saint, with the blood of Greek kings in his veins, all of which was eventually spilled like water in the name of religion.  It seemed very suitable that such perfection of carving and proportion as was shown in steps, towers, facade, and frieze should be dedicated to a Greek saint, who must have adored and understood true beauty as few of his brother saints could.

Mr. Dane had said, just before I started, that there was a gem of a spiral staircase, called the Vis de St. Gilles, which I ought to see, and a house, unspoiled since mediaeval days; but the question of these sights was settled adversely for me by my master and mistress.  The frieze they did admire, but it sufficed.  Their inner man and woman clamoured for a feast, and the eyes must be sacrificed.

As for me, I did not count even as a sacrifice, of course, but I followed them back to the car as I’d followed them from it, and the car flew toward Nimes.

Just at first, for a few moments which I hate to confess to myself now, I was disappointed in Nimes.  The town looked cold, and modern, and conceited after the melancholy charm of Arles and the mediaeval aspect of Avignon; but that was only as we drove to our stately hotel in its large, dignified square.  Afterward—­after the inevitable lunching and unpacking—­when I started out once again in the society of my adopted relative, I prayed to be forgiven.

A gale was blowing, but little cared we.  A toque or a picture-hat make all the difference in the world to a woman’s impressions, even of Paradise—­if the wind be ever more than a lovely zephyr there.  Lady Turnour had insisted on changing her motoring hat for a Gainsborough confection which would, I was deadly certain, cause her to loathe Nimes while memory should last; but the better part was mine.  Toqued and veiled, the mistral could crack its cheeks if it liked; it couldn’t hurt mine, or do unseemly things to my hair.