were dark groups of cypresses, like mourning figures talking together after a funeral—ancient trees who could almost remember the Romans; and better than all else, there was Pont Flavian, which these Romans had built.
Even Lady Turnour condescended to get out of the car to do honour to the bridge with its two Corinthian arches of perfect grace and beauty; but she had nothing to say to the poor little, tired-looking lions sitting on top, which I longed to climb up and pat.
She wanted to push on, and her one thought of Aix-en-Provence was for lunch. Was Dane sure we should find anything decent to eat there? Very well, then the sooner we got it the better.
What a good thing there was someone on board the car to appreciate Provence, someone to keep saying—"We're in Provence—Provence!" repeating the word just for the joy and music of it, and all it means of romance and history!
If there had not been someone to say and feel that, every turn of the tyres would have been an insult to Provence, who had put on her loveliest dress to bid us welcome. Among the olives and almonds, young trees of vivid yellow spouted pyramids of thin, gold flame against a sky of violet, and the indefinable fragrance of spring was in the air. We met handsome, up-standing peasants in red or blue beréts, singing melodiously in patois—Provençal, perhaps—as they walked beside their string of stout cart-horses. And the songs, and the dark eyes of the singers, and the wonderful horned harness which the noble beasts wore with dignity, all seemed to answer us: "Yes, you are in Provence."
