At the end of a fairly-wide circuit, Aristide, with empty store-boxes and pleasantly-full pockets, arrived at the little town of Aix-en-Provence. He had arrived there not without difficulty. On the outskirts the car, which had been coaxed reluctantly along for many weary kilometres, had groaned, rattled, whirred, given a couple of convulsive leaps, and stood stock-still. This was one of her pretty ways. He was used to them, and hitherto he had been able to wheedle her into resumed motion. But this time, with all his cunning and perspiration, he could not induce another throb in the tired engines. A friendly motorist towed them to the Hôtel de Paris in the Cours Mirabeau. Having arranged for his room and given Jean in charge of the landlady, he procured some helping hands, and pushed the car to the nearest garage. There he gave orders for the car to be put into running condition for the following morning, and returned to the hotel. He found Jean in the vestibule, sprawling sultanesquely on the landlady's lap, the centre of an admiring circle which consisted of two little girls in pigtails, an ancient peasant-woman, and two English ladies of obvious but graceful spinsterhood. "Here is the father," said the landlady. He had already explained Jean to the startled woman--landladies were always startled at Jean's unconventional advent. "Madame," he had said, according to rigid formula, "this is my son. I am taking him from his mother, who is dead, to an aunt who is an invalid, so he is alone on my hands. I beseech you to let some kind woman attend to his necessities." There was no need for further explanation. Aristide, thus introduced, bowed politely, removed his Crusoe cap, and smiled luminously at the assembled women. They resumed their antiphonal chorus of worship. The brown, merry, friendly brat had something of Aristide's personal charm. He had a bubble and a "goo" for everyone. Aristide looked on in great delight. Jean was a son to be proud of. "_Ah! qu'il est fort--fort comme un Turc._" "_Regardez ses dents._" "The darling thing!" "_Il est_--oh, dear!--_il est ravissante!_"--with a disastrous plunge into gender. "_Tiens! il rit. C'est moi qui le fais rire._" "To think," said the younger Englishwoman to her sister, "of this wee mite travelling about in an open motor!" "He's having the time of his life. He enjoys it as much as I do," said Aristide, in his excellent English. The lady started. She was a well-bred, good-humoured woman in the early thirties, stout, with reddish hair, and irregular though comely features. Her sister was thin, faded, sandy, and kind-looking. "I thought you were French," she said, apologetically. "So I am," replied Aristide. "Provençal of Provence, Méridional of the Midi, Marseillais of Marseilles." "But you talk English perfectly." "I've lived in your beautiful country," said Aristide. "You have the bonniest boy," said the elder lady. "How old is he?"