Skirting the huge city wall, the blue car was the one note of modernity; but hardly had we turned in at a great gate worthy to open in welcome for Queen Jeanne of Naples, or Bertrand du Guesclin, than we were in the hum of twentieth-century life.  I resented the change, for one expects nothing, wants nothing, modern in Avignon; but in a moment or two we had left the bright cafes and shops behind, to plunge back into the middle ages.  Anything, it seemed, might happen in the queer, shadowed streets of tall old houses with mysterious doorways, through which the Aigle cautiously threaded, like a glittering crochet needle practicing a new stitch.  Then, in the quiet place, asleep and dreaming of stirring deeds it once had seen, we stopped before a dignified building more like some old ducal family mansion than a hotel.

But it was a hotel, and we were to stop the night in it, leaving all sightseeing for the next morning.  Lady Turnour was tired.  She had done too much already for one day—­with a reproachful glance at the chauffeur whom she thus made responsible for her prostration.  Nothing would induce her to go out again that evening, and she thought that she would dine in her own sitting-room.  She didn’t like old places, or old hotels, but she supposed she would have to make the best of this one.  She was a woman who never complained, unless it really was her duty, and then she didn’t hesitate.

This was her mood when getting out of the car, but inside the quaint and charming house a look at the visitors’ register changed it in a flash.  There was one prince and one duke; there were several counts; and as to barons, they were peppered about in rich profusion.  Each noble being was accompanied by his chauffeur, so evidently it was the “thing” to stop in the Hotel de l’Europe, and the haut monde considered Avignon worth wasting time upon.  Instantly her ladyship resolved to recover gracefully from her fatigue, and descend to the public dining-room for dinner.

So fascinated was she by the list of great names, that she lingered over the reading of them, as one lingers over the last strawberries of the season; and I had to stand at attention close behind her, with her rugs over my arm, lest any one should miss seeing that she had a maid.

“Dane says the best thing is to make Avignon a centre, and stop here two or three nights, ‘doing’ the country round, before going on to Nimes or Arles,” she said to Sir Samuel, who was clamouring for the best rooms in the house.  “I didn’t feel I should like that plan, but thinking it over, I’m not sure he isn’t right.”

I knew very well what her “thinking it over” meant!

They stood discussing the pros and cons, and as I didn’t yet know the numbers of our rooms, I was obliged to wait till I was told.  I was not bored, however, but was looking about with interest, when I heard the teuf-teuf of a motor-car outside.  “There goes Mr. Jack Dane with the Aigle,” I thought; and yet there was a difference in the sound.  I’m too amateurish in such matters to understand the exact reason for such differences, though chauffeurs say they could tell one make of motor from another by ear if they were blindfolded.  Perhaps it wasn’t our car leaving, but another one coming to the hotel!