threaded intricate fortifications, I found myself looking out for at least one or two of them.
Yes, they were there, plenty of heroes, almost all handsome, with splendid dark eyes that searched flatteringly to penetrate the mystery of my talc triangle. They did n't know, poor dears, that there was nothing better than a lady's-maid behind it. What a waste of gorgeous glances!
I laughed to myself at the fancy, and the chauffeur sitting beside me wanted to know why; but I would n't tell him. One really can't say everything to a man one has known only for a day. And yet, the curious part is, I feel as if we had been the best of friends for a long time. I never felt like that toward any man before, but I suppose it is because of the queer resemblance in our fates.
Beyond Toulon we had to slow down for a long procession of gypsy caravans on their way to town; quaint, moving houses, with strings of huge pearls that were gleaming onions, festooned across their blue or green doors and windows; and out from those doors and windows wonderful eyes gazed at us—eyes full of secrets of the East, strange eyes, more fascinating in their passing glance than those of the gay young heroes at Toulon.
So we flew on to the village of Ollioules, and into the dim mountain gorge of the same musical name. The car plunged boldly through the veil of deep blue shadow which hung, ghostlike, over the serpentine curves of the white road; and out of its twilight-mystery rose always the faint singing of a little river that ran beside us, under the steep gray wall of towering rock.
