“Lady Turnour can do nothing like a lamb,” I contradicted him.  “I should never have forgiven you for sending me away from—­the car.  Besides, Lady Turnour wants to teuf-teuf up to the chateau in her sixty-horse-power Aigle, and make an impression on the aristocracy.”

“Well, we must hope for the best now,” said he.  “But look, the snow’s an inch thick by the roadside even at this level, so I don’t know what we mayn’t be in for, between here and St. Flour, which is much higher—­the highest point we shall have to pass in getting to the Chateau de Roquemartine, a few miles out of Clermont-Ferrand.”

“You think we may get stuck?”

“It’s possible.”

“Well, that would be an adventure.  You know I love adventures.”

“But I know the Turnours don’t.  And if—­” He didn’t finish his sentence.

Higher we mounted, until half France seemed to lie spread out before us, and a solitary sign-post with “Paris-Perpignans” suggested unbelievable distances.  The Aigle glided up gradients like the side of a somewhat toppling house, and scarcely needed to change speed, so well did she like the rarefied mountain air.  I liked it too, though I had to be thankful for the plaid; and above all I liked the wild loneliness of the Causse, which was unlike anything I ever saw or imagined.  The savage monotony of the heights was broken just often enough by oases of pine wood; and the plains on which we looked down were blistered with conical hills, crowned by ancient castles which would have rejoiced the hearts of mediaeval painters, as they did mine.  Severac-le-Chateau, perched on its naked pinnacle of rock, was best of all, as we saw it from our bird’s-eye view, and then again, almost startlingly impressive when we had somehow whirled down below it, to pass under its old huddled town, before we flew up once more to higher and whiter levels.

Never had the car gone better; but Lady Turnour had objected to the early start which the chauffeur wanted, and the sun was nearly overhead when many a huge shoulder of glittering marble still walled us away from our journey’s end.  The cold was the pitiless cold of northern midwinter, and I remembered with a shiver that Millau and Clermont-Ferrand were separated from one another by nearly two hundred and fifty kilometres of such mountain roads as these.  Oh yes, it was an experience, a splendid, dazzling experience; nevertheless, my cowardly thoughts would turn, sunflower-like, toward warmth; warm rooms, even stuffy rooms, without a single window open, fires crackling, and hot things to drink.  Still, I wouldn’t admit that I was cold, and stiffened my muscles to prevent a shudder when my brother asked me cheerfully if I would enjoy a visit to the Gouffre de Padirac, close by.