ur only
hope, clearly, was in heaven; though I should have liked just to see my
new estate in Dalmatia first.

I had to let my breath go at last, and while snatching another, I
managed to gasp that I would get out and walk. But that imp of a Beechy
(who must, I sometimes think, be a changeling) hugged my arm and said
that I wasn't to be "an old woman, like the Prince"; that this
experience was too blissful to be spoiled by anybody's nerves, and no
one was going to be hurt, not even the little dog from Airole.

"How do you know?" I panted.

"Oh, because I do. And besides, I put my faith in our Chauffeulier."

"You had better put your trust in Providence," I said severely.

"It hasn't come to _that_ yet," was her flippant reply; and I shouldn't
have been surprised if white bears had come out to devour her, for those
mountain fastnesses looked capable of bears or worse.

"Don't forget this is the road the Prince recommended," Beechy went on.
"It would be too unflattering to our vanity to think he could have
wished to hurl us to our death, so it must be all right."

"He had forgotten what it was like," I said. But the idea did enter into
my mind that perhaps he had thought if our car should break down we
might be induced to continue our journey in his. And the suggestion of
so strong a desire on his part to monopolize a certain member of our
party wasn't wholly unpleasant. It gave me enough warmth round the
heart to support life during the rest of the experience which Beechy
considered so "blissful."

I will say for Mr. Barrymore that he drove carefully, keeping the brakes
on all the time, and slowing down for one curve after another, so short
and so sharp, that if our automobile had been much longer in the body
the turn couldn't have been managed.

We had trusted to Mr. Barrymore's judgment about where we were to stop
at Bellagio, for even Sir Ralph had never done more than pass through
the place; and he had telegraphed for rooms at a hotel on a high
promontory above the lake, once the chateau of a famous old Italian
family. It is still called the villa Serbelloni, and Mr. Barrymore had
described the view and the garden as being so exquisite, that he had
excited our curiosity and interest. I always think, too, there is
something fascinating, if you aren't very grand yourself (or haven't
been till lately), about living in the same rooms where grand people
have lived. You can say to yourself, "Here the Duchess ate