_métier_. I was assorting a motley collection of guide-books, novels,
maps, smelling-salts, and kodaks when he came in, and was dying to look
up, but I remained as sweetly expressionless as a doll.

The bronze statue respectfully inquired how its master would like to
make a little _détour_, instead of going by way of Aix-en-Provence to
Avignon, as arranged. Within an easy run was a spot loved by artists,
and beginning to be talked about--Martigues on the Etang de Berre, a
salt lake not far from Marseilles--said to be picturesque. The Prince of
Monaco was fond of motoring down that way.

At the sound of a princely name her ladyship's mind made itself up with
a snap. So the change of programme was decided upon, and curious as to
the chauffeur's motive, I questioned him when again we sat shoulder to
shoulder, the salt wind flying past our faces.

"Why the Etang de Berre?" I asked.

"Oh, I rather thought it would interest you. It's a queer spot."

"Thank you. You think I like queer spots--and things?"

"Yes, and people. I'm sure you do. You'll like the Etang and the country
round, but _they_ won't."

"That's a detail," said I, "since this tour runs itself in the interests
of the _femme de chambre_ and the chauffeur."

"We're the only ones who have any interests that matter. It's all the
same to them, really, where they go, if I take the car over good roads