ting in an old
man's hair; and always, far ahead, wave following wave of hill and
mountain had seemed to roll toward us like the sea as we advanced to
meet them. After the vineyards had come wild rocks, set with crumbling
forts, and towers, and chateaux; then the mild interest of fruit blossom
spraying pink and white among primly pollarded olives; then grape
country again, with squat, low-growing vines like gnomes kicking up
gnarled legs as they turned somersaults; then a break into wonderful
mountain country, with Orgon's ruins towering skyward, dark as despair,
a wild romance in stone. But before we reached the great suspension
bridge, the Pont de Bonpas, the landscape appeared exhausted after its
sublime efforts, and inclined to quiet down for a rest. It was only near
Avignon that it sprung up refreshed, ready for more strange surprises;
and the grim grandeur of the scenery as we approached the ancient town
seemed to prophesy the mediaeval towers and ramparts of the historic
city.

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