"She seems to understand something of the charm of Provence, which makes our country different from any other in the world, does she not?" the poet said at last to my companion. "She would enjoy an August fête at Arles. Some day you ought to bring her."
Mr. Dane did not answer or look at me; and I was thankful for that, because I was being silly enough to blush. It was too easy so see what Monsieur Mistral thought!
"Why didn't you tell me you knew him already?" I asked, when we had reluctantly left the museum (which might be invaded by the Philistines at any minute) and were on our way to the famous Church of St. Trophime. That we meant to see first, saving the theatre for sunset.
"Oh," answered the chauffeur evasively, "I wasn't at all sure he 'd remember me. He has so many admirers, and sees so many people."
"I have a sort of idea that your last visit to this part of the world was paid en prince, all the same!" I was impertinent enough to say.
He laughed. "Well, it was rather different from this one, anyhow," he admitted. "A little while ago it made me pretty sick to compare the past with the present, but I don't feel like that now."
"Why have you changed?" I asked.
"Partly the influence of your cheerful mind."
"Thank you. And the other part?"
"Another influence, even more powerful."
"I should like to know what it is, so that I might try to come under it, too, if it 's beneficent," that ever-lively curiosity of mine prompted me to say.
