Black cypresses soared skyward, so clean cut, so definite, that I seemed
to hear them, crystal-shrill, like the sharp notes in music, as they
leaped darkly out from a silver monotone of olives and a delicate ripple
of pearly plum or pear blossom. Mimosas poured floods of gold over the
spring landscape, blazing violently against the cloudless blue. Bloom of
peach and apple tree garlanded our road on either side; the way was
jewelled with roses; and acres of hyacinths stretched into the distance,
their perfume softening the keenness of the breeze.
"Are they going to let you pass Frejus without pausing for a single
look?" I asked mournfully. But at that instant there came a peal of the
electric bell which is one of the luxurious fittings of the car. It
meant "stop!" and we stopped.
"Aren't there some ruins here--something middle-aged?" asked Sir Samuel,
meaning mediaeval.
"Roman ruins, sir," replied his chauffeur, without changing countenance.
"Are they the sort of things you ought to say you've seen?"
"I think most people do stop and see them, sir."
"What is your wish, my dear?" Sir Samuel gallantly deferred to his
bride.
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