es, and interspersing his discourse with selections
from British national melodies, his explanation is lucid, and the
reasons evident. Soil and sun account for everything; the soil being
varied, and the sun shifty. "_Pou ni my? comprenez-vous?_" he asks.

[Illustration: "Da Karascho! All r-r-right!"]

I do perfectly, at the moment; but subsequently trying to explain the
phenomena scientifically, I find that I have not quite penetrated the
mystery _au fond_. We visit the Wine-press, which (_Happy Thought!_)
would be an appropriate title for a journal devoted entirely to the
wine-growing and wine-vending interests.

"And now," says M. le Vicomte, "we must return to breakfast, or the
sun will be too strong for us."

So back we go to our eleven o'clock _dejeuner_ in a beautifully cool
room, of which repast the sweetest little cray-fish, fresh from the
river, are by no means the worst part of the entertainment. Then
coffee, cigars, and lounge. Yes, there are some things better managed
in France than _chez nous_; and the division of the day between
labour and refreshment is, in my humble opinion, one of them. In the
contriving of dainty dishes out of the simplest materials, the French
seem to hold that everything is good for food in this best of all
possible worlds, if it be only treated on a wise system of variation,
permutation, and combination. We discuss these subjects of the higher
education until arrives the inevitable hour of departure. Let us not
linger on the doorstep. Into the trap again. _Bon voyage! Au revoir!_
And as passing out of the lodge-gate we get a last glimpse of the
party waving adieux to us from the upper terrace, DAUBINET flourishes
his hat, and sings out at the top of his voice, "We're leaving thee in
sorrow, ANNIE," which is more or less appropriate, perhaps; and then,
as the last flutter of a pocket-handkerchief is seen, he finishes
with "And blass the Prince of WAILES!" After which he subsides,
occasionally breaking the silence to sigh aloud, "_O Maman!_" and
thenceforth, for the greater part of the journey to Paris, he slumbers
in a more or less jumpy manner.

_At the Grand Hotel, Paris_.--"Aha!" cries M. le Baron BLUM,--always
in full Blum at the Grand Hotel,--"At last! arrived!" as if he had
expected us for several weeks past,--"How are you? I have your rooms
ready for you!" He must have seen us driving into the courtyard, and
settled our numbers there and then, not a minute ago. It's a gre