CHAPTER VIII
THE tidal wave of pines followed us as, having had one glance at the Porte Dorée, we left Fréjus, old and new, behind. It followed us out of gay little St. Raphael, lying in its alluvial plain of flowers, and on along the coast past which the ships of Augustus Cæsar used to sail.
Not in my most starry dreams could I have fancied a road as beautiful as that which opened to us soon, winding above the dancing water.
Graceful dryad pines knelt by the wayside, stretching out their arms to the sea, where charming little bays shone behind enlacing branches, blue as the eyes of a wood-nymph gleaming shyly through the brown tangle of her hair. Pine balsam mingled with the bitter-sweet perfume of almond blossom, and caught a pungent tang of salt from the wind.
What romance—what beauty! It made me in love with life, just to pass this way, and know that so much hidden loveliness existed. I glanced furtively over my shoulder at the couple whose honeymoon it is—our master and mistress. Lady Turnour sat nodding in the conservatory atmosphere of her glass cage, and Sir Samuel was earnestly choosing a cigar.
Suddenly it struck me that Providence must have a vast sense of humour, and that the little inhabitants of
