“It ought to do very well—­if I’m not delayed on the road by snow.”

“Do you expect to be?”

“I hope not.  But it’s possible.”

“Well, her ladyship has made up her mind, and we must risk it.  I’ll trust you to get out of any scrape.”

The chauffeur smiled.  “I’ll try not to get into one,” he said.  “And I’d better be off—­unless you have further instructions?”

“Only the receipt for the luggage.  Here it is,” said Sir Samuel.  “And here are the keys for you, Elise.  Her ladyship wants you to have everything unpacked by the time she arrives.  Oh—­and the rugs!  We shall need them in the train.”

“Isn’t mademoiselle going with you?” asked my brother, showing surprise at last.

“No.  Her mistress thinks it would be better for her to have everything ready for us at the ‘chattoe.’  You see, it will be almost dinner-time when we get there.”

“But, sir, if the car’s delayed—­”

“Well,” cut in Sir Samuel, “we must chance it, I’m afraid.  The fact is, her ladyship is in such a nervous state that I don’t care to put any more doubts into her head.  She’s made up her mind what she wants, and we’d better let it go at that.”

If I’d been near enough to my brother I should have stamped on his foot, or seized some other forcible method of suggesting that he should kindly hold his tongue.  As it was, my only hope lay in an imploring look, which he did not catch.  However, in pity for Sir Samuel he said no more; and before we were three minutes older, if her ladyship had yearned to have me back, it would have been too late.  We were off together, and another day had been given to us for ours.

The chauffeur proposed that I should sit inside the car; but I had regained all my courage in the hot inn-kitchen.  I was not cold, and didn’t feel as if I should ever be cold again.

The road mounted almost continuously.  Sometimes, as we looked ahead, it seemed to have been broken off short just in front of the car, by some dreadful earth convulsion; but it always turned out to be only a sudden dip down, or a sharp turn like the curve of an apple-paring.  At last we had reached the highest peak of the Roof of France—­a sloping, snow-covered roof; but steep as was the slant, very little of the snow appeared to have slipped off.

The Cevennes on our right loomed near and bleak; the Auvergne stretched endlessly before us, and the virgin snow, pure as edelweiss, was darkened in the misty distance by patches of shadow, purple-blue, like beds of early violets.

At first but a thin white sheet was spread over our road, but soon the lace-like fabric was exchanged for a fleecy blanket, then a thick quilt of down, and the motor began to pant.  The winds seemed to come from all ways at once, shrieking like witches, and flinging their splinters of ice, fine and small as broken needles, against our cheeks.  Still I would not go inside.  I could not bear to be warm and comfortable while Jack faced the cold alone.  I knew his fingers must be stiff, though he wouldn’t confess to any suffering, and I wished that I knew how to drive the car, so that we might have taken turns, sitting with our hands in our pockets.