speaking literally; I'm sure there's such a microbe, and that
he's a brave beast. I should like to see him in your big microscope.
Perhaps I'll bring him home for the purpose.

It has become the greatest joy I have ever known to get all I possibly
can out of noble Balzac; to urge Balzac uphill as fast as I can; to
drive Balzac downhill as fast as I dare; to man[oe]uvre Balzac in and
out of traffic with all my skill and nerve. But you mustn't be a bit
uneasy about me. Brown is always at my elbow to "warn, to comfort, to
command," and I know that he won't let me do anything I oughtn't or let
any harm come of it if I did.

The worst of driving an automobile yourself, when you've really got that
microbe in your blood, is that you don't see quite as much of the
country as you would otherwise, and that you hate to stop, even when
there are wonderful things to see. But then it used to be almost the
same in both ways when one lived, breathed, and moved for bicycles. Do
you remember how I would talk of nothing else, and made "bike slang"
answer for all human nature's daily needs? You _were_ annoyed one night
when I took your arm as we were walking together, and told you you were
"geared too high for me."

If my life depended now on giving accurate details of the country
through which we've been driving, I should have to resign myself to die.
I only know that I've never been so happy, or seen half so much that was
beautiful and (as that Mrs. Bennett, who wanted to marry you so badly,
was always saying) "soul-satisfying."

Well, we left Bordighera the day after Christmas. Brown called it
"Boxing Day," but I didn't understand what he meant till he explained.
We went spinning along the Riviera di Ponente, towards Genoa la Superba,
where we were to halt for the night. Perhaps--just perhaps--a true
critic of beauty, whose blood had cooled with much experience, would say
that the Italian Riviera road wasn't quite equal to the French between
Cannes and Mentone. But it's Italy, Italy! And there's the difference of
charm between the two (as I said to Brown) that there is between a
magnificent young French Duchesse, confident of her own charms, with
generations of breeding and wealth behind her, and a lovely,
peach-tinted, simple-hearted Italian peasant girl. How rich the colour
is everywhere!--and yet it never seems to dazzle the eye. I suppose it's
the wonderful atmosphere that harmonises everything. And then the
lovely, softening ef