ain how Frejus was Claustra Gallae to
Caesar, and how it was the "Caput" for this part of the wonderful Via
Aurelia, which started at Rome, never ending until it came to Arles.

"Why, we've been to Rome, and we're going to Arles," she exclaimed. "We
can tell people we've been over the whole of the Via Aurelia, can't we?
We needn't mention that the automobile didn't arrive till after we got
to Cannes. And anyway, you say there were once theatres there, and at
Antibes, like the one at Frejus, so we've been making a kind of Roman
pilgrimage all along, if we'd only known it."

"It is considered quite the thing to do, in Roman amphitheatres, to make
a tour of the prisoners' cells and gladiators' dressing-rooms, the guide
says," insinuated the chauffeur. And then, when the bride and
bridegroom, reluctant but conscientious, were swimming round the vast
bowl of masonry, like tea-leaves floating in a great cup, he turned to
me.

"Why don't you thank me?" he inquired. "I was doing it for you. I knew
you hated to miss all this, and I saw she meant to go on, so I
intervened, in the only way I could think of, to touch her."

"If you're always as clever as that, I don't see why this shouldn't be
_our_ trip," I said. "That will be a consolation."

"I'm afraid you'll often need more consolation than that," he answered.
"Lady Turnour is--as the Americans say--a pretty 'stiff proposition.'"

"Still, if you can hypnotize her into going to all the places, and
stopping to look at all the nicest things, this will at least be a cheap
automobile tour for us both."

I laughed, but he didn't; and I was sorry, for I thought I deserved a
smile. And he has a nice one, with even white teeth in it, and a wistful
sort of look in his eyes at the same time: a really interesting smile.

I wondered what he was thinking about that made him look so grave; but I
conceitedly felt that it was something concerning me--or the situation
of us both.

CHAPTER VIII

The tidal wave of pines followed us as, having had one glance at the
Porte Doree, we left Frejus, old and new, behind. It followed us out of
gay little St. Raphael, lying in its alluvial plain of flowers, and on
along the coast past which the ships of Augustus Caesar used to sail.

Not in my most starry dreams could I have fancied a road as beautiful as
that which opened to us soon, winding above the dancing water.

Graceful dryad pines knelt by the wayside, stretching out their arms