he sky.

"No wonder the soldiers are smart and the officers fine," said the
Chauffeulier, in answer to a remark of mine which Beechy echoed.
"Brescia deserves them more than most towns of Italy, for you know she
has always been famous for the military genius and courage of her men,
and once she was second only to Milan in importance. Venice--whose
vassal she was--had a right to be proud of her. The history of the great
siege, wherein Bayard got the wound which he thought would be mortal, is
as interesting as a novel. 'The Escape of Tartaglia' and 'The Generosity
of Bayard' are bits that make you want to shout aloud."

"And yet we'll pass on, and see nothing, except those panorama-like
glimpses," I sighed. "Oh motoring, motoring, and motor maniacs!"

"How often one has that half-pleasant, half-regretful feeling about
things or people one flashes by on the road," soliloquized Sir Ralph,
pleasantly resigned to the pain of parting. I have it continually,
especially about some of the beautiful, dark-eyed girls I see, and leave
behind before I've fairly catalogued their features. I say to myself,
"Lovely flower of beauty, wasted in the dust of the roadside. Alas! I
leave you for ever. What is to be your fate? Will you grow old soon,
under your peasant-burdens and cares? How sad it is that I shall never
know your history."

"It wouldn't be a bit interesting," said Beechy. "But I suppose that
theory won't comfort you any more than it did Maida the other day, when
she tried too late to save a fly from dying in some honey, and I
consoled her by saying it probably wasn't at all a nice fly, if one had
known it."

"No, it doesn't console me," Sir Ralph complained. "Still, there's a
certain thrill in the thought of bursting like a thunder-bolt into the
midst of other people's tragedies, comedies, or romances, just catching
a fleeting glimpse of their possibilities and tearing on again. But
there are some creatures we meet that I'm glad to lose sight of. Not
those who glare anarchically, unconsciously betraying their outlook on
life; not the poor slow old people who blunder in the way, and stare
vacantly up at our fiery chariot--so strange a development of the world
for them; not the dogs that yelp, and are furious if we don't realize
that they're frightening us. No, but the horrid little jeering boys, who
run beside the car at their best speed when we're forging up
perpendicular hills on _our_ lowest. These are the creatures I w