trotting about with his head in his hands. On the way to the Cathedral
notice the doorways you'll pass. Aix is celebrated for its doorways."

(Evidently my brother passed through Aix, as well as along the Corniche,
under "different circumstances!")

"You mean--I'm to go alone?"

"Yes, I can't leave the car to take you. I'm sorry."

The French half of me was vexed again, but didn't dare let the sensible
American half, which knew he was right, see it, for fear of another
scolding.

I thanked him in a way as businesslike as his own, and said that I would
take his advice; which I did. Although I hate sightseeing by myself, I
wouldn't let him think I meant to be always trespassing on his good
nature; and afterward I was glad I hadn't yielded to my inclination to
be helpless, for the Cathedral and the doorways were all he had
promised, and more. It was a scramble to see anything in the few minutes
I had, though, and awful to feel that Lady Turnour was hanging over my
head like a sword. The thought of how she would look and what she would
say if I kept the car waiting was a string tied to my nerves, pulling
them all at once, like a jumping-jack's arms and legs, so that I
positively ran back to the hotel, more breathless than Cinderella when
the hour of midnight began to strike. But there was the magic glass
coach, not yet become a pumpkin; there was the chauffeur, not turned
into whatever animal a chauffeur does turn into in fairy stories; and
there were not Sir Samuel and her ladyship, nor any sign of them.