their ears, pranced a little, then sprang into
their collars, and we were off along the lovely river road at a
spanking pace and with as smooth and even a gait as the most
experienced roadsters.

We could hear Charles's polite compliments to Jimmie on his driving,
and Jimmie's awful French, as he assured Charles that the horses were
all right, "_tres gentils_" and "_tres jolis_." "_Ne dites jamais
'doucement' aux chevaux americains. Dites 'whoa,' et ils arreteront,
et quand vous dites 'Giddap,' ils marcheront bien. Savez?_" At which
Charles obediently practised "Whoa!" and "Giddap!" while we felt
ourselves pulled up and started off, as the object-lesson demanded,
but amid shrieks of laughter which quite upset Charles's dignity.

Finally, we whirled in across the moat and under the great gate to the
chateau, and found ourselves in the billiard-room of Velor, with a big
open fire, in front of which lay a pile of dogs and around which we
all gathered shiveringly, for the day was chilly.

That charming billiard-room at Velor! It is not so grand as the rest
of the chateau, but everybody loves it best of all. It is on the
ground floor, and it has a writing-desk and two or three little
work-tables and several sofas and heaps of easy-chairs, and here
everybody came to read or write or sew or play billiards. And as to
afternoon tea! Not one of us could have been hired to drink it in the
salons up-stairs. In fact, so many of us insisted upon being in the
billiard-room that there never was room for a free play of one's cue,
for somebody was always in the way, and it was rather discouraging to
hear a woman doing embroidery say, "Don't hit this ball. Take some
other stroke, can't you? Your cue will strike me in the eye."

Dunham, the eighteen-year-old son of the Marquise, was teaching me
billiards, but his manners were so beautiful that he always pretended
that to stick to one's own ball was a mere arbitrary rule of the game,
so he permitted me to play with either ball, which made it easiest for
me, or which caused least discomfort to those sitting uncomfortably
near the table. A dear boy, that Dunham! He had but one fault, and
that was that he _would_ wear cerise and scarlet cravats, and his hair
was red--so uncompromisingly red, of such an obstinate and determined
red, that his mother often said, "Come here, Dunham, dear, and light
up this corner of the room with your sunny locks. It is too dark to
see how to thread my needle!