So we came to Les Vignes, and lunched together at a table set out of doors, close to the car, that she might not be left alone.  We had for food a strange and somewhat evil combination; wild hare and wild boar; but they seemed to suit the landscape somehow, as did the mystical music of the conch-shells, blown by passing boatmen.  It was like being waked from a dream of old-time romance, by a rude hand shaking one’s shoulder, to hear the voices of Sir Samuel and Lady Turnour, he mildly arguing, she disputing, as usual.

Poetry fled like a dryad of some classic wood, scared by a motor omnibus; and, though the gorge as far as Le Rozier was magnificent, and the road all the way to Millau beautiful in the sunset, it was no longer our gorge, or our road.  That made a difference!

CHAPTER XXIV

There was a telegram from “Bertie” at Millau.  The invitation to the chateau where he was stopping near Clermont-Ferrand, had been asked for and given.  I heard all about it, of course, from the conversation between the bride and groom; for Lady Turnour prides herself on discussing things in my presence, as if I were deaf or a piece of furniture.  She has the idea that this trick is a habit of the “smart set”; and she would allow herself to be tarred and feathered, in Directoire style, if she could not be smart at smaller cost.

Nothing was ever more opportune than that telegram, for her ladyship had burnt her frock and chilled her liver in the boat, and though the hotel at Millau was good, she arrived there with the evident intention of making life a burden to Sir Samuel.  The news from Bertie changed all that, however; and though the weather was like the breath of icebergs next morning, Lady Turnour was warmed from within.  She chatted pleasantly with Sir Samuel about the big luggage which had gone on to Clermont-Ferrand, and asked his advice concerning the becomingness of various dresses.  The one unpleasant thing she allowed herself to say, was that “certainly Bertie wasn’t doing this for nothing,” and that his stepfather might take her word for it, Bertie would be neither slow nor shy in naming his reward.  But Sir Samuel only grinned, and appeared rather amused than otherwise at the shrewdness of his wife’s insight into the young man’s character.

I was conscious that my jacket hadn’t been made for motoring, when I came out into the sharp morning air and took my place in the Aigle.  I was inclined to envy my mistress her fur rugs, but to my surprise I saw lying on my seat a Scotch plaid, plaider than any plaid ever made in Scotland.

“Does that belong to the hotel?” I asked the chauffeur, as he got into the car.

“It belongs to you,” said he.  “A present from Millau for a good child.”

“Oh, you mustn’t!” I exclaimed.

“But I have,” he returned, calmly.  “I’m not going to watch you slowly freezing to death by my side; for it won’t be exactly summer to-day.  Let me tuck you in prettily.”