A “gouffre” on such a day!  Not all the splendours of the posters which I had often seen and admired, could thrill me to a desire for the expedition; but I tried to cover my real feelings with the excuse that it must now be too late to make even a small detour.  Mr. Jack Dane laughed, and replied that he had no intention of making it; he had only wanted to test my pluck.  “I believe you’d pretend to be delighted if I told you we had plenty of time, and mustn’t miss going,” said he.  “But don’t be frightened; this isn’t a Gouffre de Padirac day, though it really is a great pity to pass it by.  What do you say to lunch instead?”

And we rolled through a magnificent mediaeval gateway into the ancient and unpronounceable town of Marvejols.

Before he had time to make the same suggestion to his more important passengers, it came hastily from within the glass cage.  So we stopped at an inn which proudly named itself an hotel; and chauffeur and maid were entertained in a kitchen destitute of air and full of clamour.  Nevertheless, it seemed a snug haven to us, and never was any soup better than the soup of “Marvels,” as Sir Samuel and Lady Turnour called the place.

The word was “push on,” however, for we had still the worst before us, and a long way to go.  The Quality had promised to finish its luncheon in an hour; and well before the time was up, we two Worms were out in the cold, each engaged in fulfilling its own mission.  I was arranging rugs; the chauffeur was pouring some libation from a long-nosed tin upon the altar of his goddess when our master appeared, wearing such an “I haven’t stolen the cream or eaten the canary” expression that we knew at once something new was in the wind.

He coughed, and floundered into explanations.  “The waiter, who can speak some English, has been frightening her ladyship,” said he.  “After the day before yesterday she’s grown a bit timid, and to hear that the cold she has suffered from is nothing to what she may have to experience higher up, and later in the day, as the sun gets down behind the mountains, has put her off motoring.  It seems we can go on from here by train to Clermont-Ferrand and that’s what she wants to do.  I hate deserting the car, but after all, this is an expedition of pleasure, and if her ladyship has a preference, why shouldn’t it be gratified?”

“Quite so, sir,” responded the chauffeur, his face a blank.

“My first thought on making up my mind to the train was to have the car shipped at the same time,” went on Sir Samuel, “but it seems that can’t be done.  There’s lots of red tape about such things, and the motor might have to wait days on end here at Marvels, before getting off, to say nothing of how long she might be on the way.  Whereas, I’ve been calculating, if you start now and go as quick as you can, you ought to be at the chateau” (he pronounced it ‘chattoe’) “before us.  Our train doesn’t leave for more than an hour, and it’s a very slow one.  Still, it will be warm, and we have cards and Tauchnitz novels.  Then, you know, you can unload the luggage at the chateau and run back to the railway station at Clermont-Ferrand, see to having our big boxes sent out (they’ll be there waiting for us) and meet our train.  What do you think of the plan?”