I thought, too, of all the French novels I’d read, whose sailor heroes were stationed at Toulon, and there met romantic or sensational adventures.  They were always handsome and dashing, those heroes, and as we threaded intricate fortifications, I found myself looking out for at least one or two of them.

Yes, they were there, plenty of heroes, almost all handsome, with splendid dark eyes that searched flatteringly to penetrate the mystery of my talc triangle.  They didn’t know, poor dears, that there was nothing better than a lady’s-maid behind it.  What a waste of gorgeous glances!

I laughed to myself at the fancy, and the chauffeur sitting beside me wanted to know why; but I wouldn’t tell him.  One really can’t say everything to a man one has known only for a day.  And yet, the curious part is, I feel as if we had been the best of friends for a long time.  I never felt like that toward any man before, but I suppose it is because of the queer resemblance in our fates.

Beyond Toulon we had to slow down for a long procession of gypsy caravans on their way to town; quaint, moving houses, with strings of huge pearls that were gleaming onions, festooned across their blue or green doors and windows; and out from those doors and windows wonderful eyes gazed at us—­eyes full of secrets of the East, strange eyes, more fascinating in their passing glance than those of the gay young heroes at Toulon.

So we flew on to the village of Ollioules, and into the dim mountain gorge of the same musical name.  The car plunged boldly through the veil of deep blue shadow which hung, ghostlike, over the serpentine curves of the white road; and out of its twilight-mystery rose always the faint singing of a little river that ran beside us, under the steep gray wall of towering rock.

At the top of the gorge a surprise of beauty waited for us as our way led along a sinuous road cut into the swelling mountain-side.  Far off lay the sea, with an army of tremendous purple rocks hurling themselves headlong into the molten gold of the water, like a drove of mammoths.  All the world was gold and royal purple.  Hills and mountains stood up, darkly violet, out of a golden plain, against a sky of gold; and it was such a picture as only Heaven or Turner could have painted.

Nor was there any break in the varied splendor of the scene and of the sun’s setting until we came to the dull-looking town of Aubagne.  After that, the Southern darkness swooped in haste, and while we wound tediously through the immense, never-ending traffic of Marseilles, it “made night.”  All the length and breadth of the Cannebiere burst into brilliance of electric light, as if in our honor.  The great street looked as gay as a Paris boulevard; and as we turned into it, we turned into an adventure.

To begin with, nothing seemed less likely than an adventure.  We drew up calmly before the door of a hotel whence a telephonic demand for rooms must be sent to La Reserve, under the same management.  It was the chauffeur who had to go in and telephone, for the bridegroom is even more helpless in French than the bride; and before Mr. Dane could stop the car, Sir Samuel called out:  “Keep the motor going, to save time.  You needn’t be a minute in there.  Her ladyship is hungry, and wants to get on.”