The car stopped, and duty began. I couldn't even turn and say good night to the chauffeur, as I walked primly into the hotel, laden with my mistress's things.
She and Sir Samuel had the best rooms in the house, a suite big enough and grand enough for a king and queen, with a delightful loggia overlooking the high garden and the sea. But of course Lady Turnour would die rather than seem impressed by anything, and would probably pick faults if she were invited to sleep at Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle—a contingency which I think unlikely. She was snappish with hunger, and did not trouble to restrain her temper before me. Poor Sir Samuel! It is he who has snatched her from her lodging-house, to lead her into luxury, because of his faithful love of many years; and this is the way she rewards him! If I'd been in his place, and had a javelin handy, I think I might suddenly have become a widower.
She was better after dinner, however, so I knew she must have been well fed: and in the morning, after a gorgeous déjeuner on the loggia, she was in an amiable mood to plan for the day's journey.
At ten o'clock the chauffeur arrived, and was shown up to the Turnours' vast Louis XVI. salon. He looked as much like an icily regular, splendidly null, bronze statue as a flesh-and-blood young man could possibly look, for that, no doubt, is his conception of the part of a well-trained "shuvver"; and he did not seem aware of my existence as he stood, cap in hand, ready for orders.
As for me, I flatter myself that I was equally admirable in my own métier. I was assorting a motley collection of guide-books, novels, maps, smelling-salts, and kodaks when he came in, and was dying to look up, but I remained as sweetly expressionless as a doll.
The bronze statue respectfully inquired how its master would like to make a little détour, instead of going by way of Aix-en-Provence to Avignon, as arranged. Within an easy run was a spot loved by artists, and beginning to be talked about—Martigues on the Etang de Berre, a salt lake not far from Marseilles—said to be picturesque. The Prince of Monaco was fond of motoring down that way.
At the sound of a princely name her ladyship's mind made itself up with a snap. So the change of programme was decided upon, and curious as to the chauffeur's motive, I questioned him when again we sat shoulder to shoulder, the salt wind flying past our faces.
"Why the Etang de Berre?" I asked.
"Oh, I rather thought it would interest you. It's a queer spot."
"Thank you. You think I like queer spots—and things?"