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?"
"Yes, and people. I 'm sure you do. You 'll like the Etang and the country round, but they won't."
"That 's a detail," said I, "since this tour runs itself in the interests of the femme de chambre and the chauffeur."
"We 're the only ones who have any interests that matter. It 's all the same to them, really, where they go, if I take the car over good roads and land them at expensive hotels at night. But I 'm not going to do that always.
