Instead of discussing such little things as the Turnours and their Bertie, we began to talk of Phoenicians, Ligurians, and of Romans; of Pliny, who had a beloved friend at Frejus; and all the while to breathe in the perfume of a land over which a vast tidal wave of balsamic pines had swept.

Frejus we were not to see now:  that was for the dim future, after lunch; but we turned to the left off the main road, and ran on until we saw, bathed in pines, deliciously deluged and drowned in pines, the white glimmer of classic-looking villas.  These meant Valescure, said the chauffeur; and the Grand Hotel—­not classic looking, but pretty in its terraced garden—­meant luncheon.

The car drew up before the door, according to order, or rather, according to hypnotic suggestion; for it seems that it is the chauffeur who alone knows anything of the way, and who, while appearing to be non-committal, is virtually planning the tour.  “Valescure might be a good stopping-place for lunch,” he had murmured, an eye on the road map over which his head bent with Sir Samuel’s.  “Very beautiful—­rather exclusive.  You may remember Mr. Chamberlain stopped there.”

The exclusiveness and the Chamberlain-ness decided Lady Turnour, behind Sir Samuel’s shoulder (so the chauffeur told me); consequently, here we were—­and not at St. Raphael, which would have seemed the more obvious place to stop.

I say “we,” but Lady Turnour would have been surprised to hear that her maid dared count herself and a chauffeur in the programme.  Creatures like us must be fed, just as you pour petrol into the tanks of a motor, or stoke a furnace with coals, because otherwise our mechanism wouldn’t go, and that would be awkward when we were wanted.

The chauffeur opened the door of the car as if he had been born to open motor-car doors, and Lady Turnour allowed herself to be helped out by her husband.  Her jewel-bag clutched in her hand (she doesn’t know me well enough yet to trust me with it, and hasn’t had bagsful of jewels for long), she passed her two servants without expending a look on them.  Sir Samuel followed, telling his chauffeur to have the automobile ready at the door again in an hour and a quarter; and we two Worms were left to our own resources.

“I shan’t garage her,” said my fellow Worm of the car.  “I’ll just drive her out of the way, where I can look over her a bit when I’ve snatched something to eat.  I’ll take the fur rugs inside—­you’re not to bother, they’re big enough to swamp you entirely.  And then you—­”

“Yes, then I—­” I repeated desolately.  “What is to become of me?”

“Why, you’re to have your lunch, of course,” he replied.  “I thought you said you were hungry.”

“So I am, starving.  But—­”

“Well?”

“Aren’t you going to have a proper lunch?”

“A sandwich and a piece of cheese will do for me, because there are one or two little things to tinker up on the car, and an hour and a quarter isn’t long.  I think I shall bring my grub out of doors, and—­But is anything the matter?”