“My name is John Claud.  But when I was a boy, I always fought any chap who called me ‘Claud,’ and tried to give him a black eye or a bloody nose.  You may call me Jack, if you like.”

“Certainly not.  I shall call you Mr. Dane.”

“Shuvvers are never mistered.”

“Not even by the females of their kind?  I always supposed that manners were very toploftical in the servants’ hall.”

“We may both soon know.”

“Elise, take that cup at once where you got it from, and come back to your place.  We are ready to start.”

This from Lady Turnour. (Really, if she takes to interfering every time we others have got to the middle of an interesting conversation, I don’t know what I shall do to her!  Perhaps I’ll put her transformation on side-wise.  Or would that be blackmail?)

Silently the chauffeur took the cup from my frightened fingers, and marched off with it into the hotel, without a “by your leave” or “with your leave.”

“My word, your chauffeur might have better manners!” grumbled Lady Turnour to Sir Samuel, as she climbed into the car; but there was no scolding when the rude young man came briskly back, looking supremely unconscious of having given offence.

“Now we must make good time to Marseilles, if we’re to get there for dinner,” he said, when he had started the car, and taken his place.  “We shall stop there to-night, or rather, just outside the town, in one of the nicest hotels on earth, as you will see.”

“Whose choice?” I asked.

“Mine,” he laughed, “but I don’t think Sir Samuel knows that!”

Down to Hyeres we floated again, on the wings of the Aigle, I looking longingly across the valley where the old town climbed a citadeled hill, and lay down at the foot of a sturdy though crumbling castle.  If this were really my own tour, as I am trying to play it is, I would have commanded a long stop at Costebelle, to make explorations of the region round about.  I can imagine no greater joy than to be able to stay at beautiful places as long as one wished, and to keep on doing beautiful things till one tired of doing them.

But life is a good deal like a big busybody of a policeman, continually telling us to get up and move on!

Our world was a flower world again, ringed in like a secret fairyland, with distant mountains of extraordinarily graceful shapes—­charming lady-mountains; and as far as we could see the road was cut through a carpet of pink, white, and golden blossoms destined by and by for the markets of Paris, London, Berlin, and Vienna.

Before I thought it could be so near, we dashed into Toulon, a very different Toulon from the Toulon of the railway station, where I remembered stopping a few mornings (which seemed like a few years) ago.  Now, it looked a noble and impressive place, as well as a tremendously busy town; but my eye climbed to the towery heights above, wondering on which one Napoleon—­a smart young officer of artillery—­placed the batteries that shelled the British out of the harbour, and gained for him the first small laurel leaf of his imperial crown.