“Are they going to let you pass Frejus without pausing for a single look?” I asked mournfully.  But at that instant there came a peal of the electric bell which is one of the luxurious fittings of the car.  It meant “stop!” and we stopped.

“Aren’t there some ruins here—­something middle-aged?” asked Sir Samuel, meaning mediaeval.

“Roman ruins, sir,” replied his chauffeur, without changing countenance.

“Are they the sort of things you ought to say you’ve seen?”

“I think most people do stop and see them, sir.”

“What is your wish, my dear?” Sir Samuel gallantly deferred to his bride.  “I know you don’t like out-of-door sightseeing when it’s windy, and blows your hair about, but—­”

“We might try, and if I don’t like it, we can go on,” replied Lady Turnour, patronizing the remains of Roman greatness, since it appeared to be the “thing” for the nobility and gentry to do.

The chauffeur obediently turned the big blue Aigle, and let her sail into the very centre of the vast arena where Caesar saw gladiators fight and die.

It was very noble, very inspiring, and from some shady corner promptly emerged a quaintly picturesque old guardian, ready to pour forth floods of historic information.  He introduced himself as a soldier who had seen fighting in Mexico under Maximilian, therefore the better able to appreciate and fulfil his present task.  But her ladyship listened for awhile with lack-lustre eyes, and finally, when dates were flying about her ears like hail, calmly interrupted to say that she was “glad she hadn’t lived in the days when you had to go to the theatre out of doors.”

“I can’t understand more than one word in twelve that the old thing says, anyhow,” she went on.  “Elise must give me French lessons every day while she does my hair.  I hope she has the right accent.”

“He’s saying that this amphitheatre was once almost as large as the one at Nimes, but that it would only hold about ten thousand spectators,” explained the chauffeur, who was engaged partly for his French and knowledge of France.

“It’s nonsense bothering to know that now, when the place is tumbling to pieces,” sneered her ladyship.

“I beg your pardon, my lady; I only thought that, as a rule, the best people do feel bound to know these things.  But of course—­” He paused deferentially, without a twinkle in his eye, though I was pressing my lips tightly together, and trying not to shake spasmodically.

“Oh, well, go on.  What else does the old boy say, then?” groaned Lady Turnour, martyrisee.

Mr. Bane or Dane didn’t dare to glance at me.  With perfect gravity he translated the guide’s best bits, enlarging upon them here and there in a way which showed that he had independent knowledge of his own.  And it was a feather in his cap that his eloquence eventually interested Lady Turnour.  She made him tell her again how Frejus was Claustra Gallae to Caesar, and how it was the “Caput” for this part of the wonderful Via Aurelia, which started at Rome, never ending until it came to Arles.