These arguments silenced if they didn't convince Lady Turnour, though
she had probably never heard of Ziem, or even Corot, and we two in front
were able to admire the charming scene in peace. Crossing bridges here
and there we saw, rising above sapphire lake and silver belt of olives
jewelled with rosy almond blossom, more than one miniature Carcassonne,
or ruined castle small as if peeped at through a diminishing glass.
There was Port le Bouc, the Mediterranean harbour of the Etang, or
watergate to fairyland, as Martigues was the door; Istre on its proud
little height; Miramas and Berre, important in their own eyes, and
pretty in all others when reflected in the glassy surface of blue water.
There were dark groups of cypresses, like mourning figures talking
together after a funeral--ancient trees who could almost remember the
Romans; and better than all else, there was Pont Flavian, which these
Romans had built.

Even Lady Turnour condescended to get out of the car to do honour to the
bridge with its two Corinthian arches of perfect grace and beauty; but
she had nothing to say to the poor little, tired-looking lions sitting
on top, which I longed to climb up and pat.

She wanted to push on, and her one thought of Aix-en-Provence was for
lunch. Was Dane sure we should find anything decent to eat there? Very
well, then the sooner we got it the better.

What a good thing there was someone on board the car to appreciate
Provence, someone to keep saying--"We're in Provence--_Provence!_"
repeating the word just for the joy and music of it, and all it means of
romance and history!