There, waiting for me as if he were an incarnate adventure, was the chauffeur, who appeared to be quite excited.  “You must have a peep into the dining-room,” he said.  “The door’s open.  You can look in without being noticed, and see the walls, which are painted with pictures from Mistral’s works.  Also there’s something else of interest, but I won’t tell you what it is.  I want to see if you can discover it for yourself.”

I peeped, and found the pictures charming.  After following them with my eyes all round the green walls which they decorate effectively, my gaze lit upon a man sitting at one of the small tables.  He was with two or three friends who hung upon the words which he accompanied by the most graceful, spirited, yet unconscious gestures.  Old he may have been as years go, but the fire of eternal youth was in his vivid dark eyes, and his smile, which had in it the tenderness of great experience, of long years lived in sympathy and love for mankind.  His head was very noble; and its shape, and the way he had of carrying it, would alone have shown that he was Someone.

“Who is that man?” I whispered to Jack Dane.  “That one who is so different from all the others.”

“Can’t you guess?” he asked.

“Not Mistral?”

“Yes.  It’s one of his days here.  He’ll be in the museum after lunch.  I’ll take you there, and if he sees that you’re interested in things, he’ll talk to you.”

“Oh, how glorious!” I breathed, quite awed at the prospect.  “But if he should find out that we’re only lady’s-maid and chauffeur?”

“Do you think it would matter to him who we were—­a great genius like that?  He wouldn’t care if we were beggars, if we had souls and brains and hearts.”

“Well, we have got some of those things,” I said.  “Do let’s hurry, and get to the museum before our betters.  They can always be counted upon to spend an hour and a half at lunch if there’s a good excuse, such as there’s sure to be in this place, famous for rich Provencal cooking.  Whereas Monsieur Mistral looks as if he would grudge more than half an hour on an occupation so prosaic as eating.”

“Nothing could be prosaic to him,” said Mr. Dane.  “And that’s the secret of life, isn’t it?  I think you have it, too, and I’m trying to take daily lessons from you.  By the time we part I hope I shan’t be quite such a sulky, discontented brute as I am now.”

“By the time we part!” The words gave me a queer, horrid little prick, with just that nasty ache that comes when you jab a hatpin into your head instead of into your hat, and have got to pull it out again.  I have grown so used to being constantly with him, and having him look after me and order me about in his dictatorial but curiously nice way, that I suppose I shall rather miss him for a week or two when this odd association of ours comes to an end.

It is strange how one ancient town can differ utterly from its neighbour, and what an extraordinary, unforgettable individuality each can have.