passed, now and then coming suddenly upon a little red-roofed village nestling among the trees as a strawberry among its leaves, when abruptly we flashed out where spaces of sky and silver sea opened. Between hills that seemed to sweep a curtsey to us, we flew down an apple-paring road toward Hyères.
The Turnours had lunched, if not wisely, probably too well, at Valescure about one o'clock, and it was n't yet four; but the air at the beautiful Costebelle hotels is said to be perpetually glittering with Royalties and other bright beings of the great world, so her ladyship would n't have been persuaded to miss the place.
Not that anyone tried to persuade her, for the two powers behind the throne (and in front of the car) wanted to go—not to see the Royalties, but the beauties of Costebelle itself.
We slipped gently through the town of Hyéres, whose avenues of giant palms looked like great sea anemones turned into trees, and then spurted up a hill into a vast and fragrant grove that smelled of a thousand flowers. In the grove stood three hotels, with wide views over jade-green lagoons to an indigo sea; and at the most charming of the trio we stopped.
Nothing was said about tea for the two servants, but while the "quality" had theirs on an exquisite terrace, the chauffeur brought a steaming cup to me, as I sat in the car.
"This was given me for my beaux yeux," he said, "but I don't want any tea, so please take it, and don't let it be wasted."
I was convinced that he had paid for that cup of tea
