"For a comrade in misfortune. And to see her to her journey's end. I suppose that end will be in Paris?"
"No-o," I said. "I rather think I shall go on all the way to England with Lady Turnour—if I can stand it. There 's a person in England who will be kind to me."
"Oh!" remarked Mr. Dane, suddenly dry and taciturn again. I did n't know what had displeased him—unless he was sorry to have my company as far as England; yet somehow I could n't quite believe it was that.
All this talk we had while dodging furious trams and enormous waggons piled with merchandise, in that maelstrom of traffic near the Marseilles docks, which must be passed before we could escape into the country. At last, coasting down a dangerously winding hill with a too suggestively named village at the bottom—L'Assassin—the Aigle turned westward. The chauffeur let her spread her wings at last, and we raced along a clear road, the Etang already shimmering blue before us, like an eye that watched and laughed.
Then we had to swing smoothly round a great circle, to see in all its length and breadth that strange, hidden, and fishy fairy-land of which Martigues is the door. Once the Phoenicians found their way here, looking for salt, which is exploited to this day; Marius camped near enough to take his morning dip in the Etang, perhaps; and Jeanne, queen of Naples, held Martigues for herself. But now only fish, and fishermen, and a few artists occupy themselves in that quaint little world winch one passes all regardlessly in the flying "Côte d'Azur."
As we sailed round the road which rings the sleepy-looking salt lake, Lady Turnour had a window opened
