The car, it appeared, was lodged in the court; and my brother’s prophecies for the success of the picnic were more than fulfilled.  Never was such a feast!  I got out the gorgeous tea-basket, trembling with a guilty joy, and Jack washed the white and gold cups and plates at the pump between courses, I drying them with cotton waste, which the car generously provided.  Besides the cabbage soup and good black coffee, foraging expeditions produced apricot tarts, nuts, and raisins.  We both agreed that no food had ever tasted so good, and probably never would again; but I kept to myself one thought which crept into my mind.  It seemed to me that nothing would ever be really interesting in my life, when the chauffeur—­the terrible, dreaded chauffeur—­should have gone out of it forever.  In a few weeks—­but I wouldn’t think ahead; I put my soul to enjoying every minute, even the tidying of the tea-basket after the picnic was over, for that business he shared with me, like the rest.  And when I dreamed, by-and-by in my box-room, that he was polishing my boots, Lady Turnour’s boots, the boots of the whole party, I waked up to tell myself that it was most likely true.

CHAPTER XXIII

“You selfish little brute!” was my first address to myself as I realized my Me-ness, between waking and sleeping, in the morning at Ste. Enemie.  I had never asked Jack where and how he was going to spend the night.  Think of that, after all he had done for me!

It was only just dawn, but already there was a stirring under my window.  Perhaps it was that which had roused me, not the early prick of an awakening conscience.

The first thing I did to-day was (as it had been yesterday) to bounce up and climb on to a chair to look out of the high window; but it was a very different window and a very different scene.  I now discovered that my room gave on the pump court, and to my surprise, I saw that through the blue silk blinds of the Aigle which were all closely drawn, a light was streaming.  This was very queer indeed, and must mean something wrong.  My imagination pictured a modern highwayman inside, with the electric lamps turned on to help him rifle the car, and I stood on tiptoe, peering out of the tiny aperture which was close under the low ceiling of the box-room.  Ought I to scream, and alarm the household, since I knew not where to go and call the chauffeur?

To be sure, there was very little, if anything, of value, which a thief could carry away, but an abandoned villain might revenge himself for disappointment by slashing the tyres, or perhaps even by setting the car on fire.

At the thought of such a catastrophe, which would bring the trip to an end and separate me at once from the society of my brother (I’m afraid I cared much more about losing him than for the Turnours’ loss of their Aigle) I was impelled to run down in my nightgown and mules to do battle single-handed with the ruffian; but suddenly, before I had quite decided, out went the light in the blue-curtained glass cage.  In another instant the car door opened, and Jack Dane quietly got out.