horrid, of course, and suddenly I was ashamed of
myself, for I had been treating him exactly like an equal; and perhaps I
was silly enough to be a tiny bit disappointed too, for I'll confess to
you, Dad, that I'd had visions of his being someone rather grand, which
would have spread a little jam of romance over the stale, dry bread of
this disagreeable experience. Anyhow, this man was _much_ better looking
than his companion, whom I knew now was the master. He wasn't a gorgeous
person, like Mr. Cecil-Lanstown, but I'd certainly thought he had rather
a distinguished air. However, these Englishmen, even the peasants, are
sometimes such splendid types--clear-cut features, brave, keen eyes,
and all that, you know, as if their ancestors might have been Vikings.

While I was thinking, he was telling me that he was a _chauffeur_, sure
enough, and that this was the last day of his engagement with his
master, who didn't wish to take a mechanic any farther. His name, he
said, was James Brown. He had had a good deal of experience with several
kinds of cars--my sort was the first he'd ever driven; he knew it well,
and if I cared to try him, he could get me a very good reference from
his master, Mr. Winston.

"Mr. Winston!" I repeated. "Is your master the Honourable John Winston?"

"That is his name," he answered, though he looked so odd when he said it
that I thought it wise to mention that I knew Mr. Winston's mother, so
he would have a sort of warning if he weren't speaking the truth. But he
didn't look like a man who would tell fibs, and to cut a long story
short, he brought out a letter which the Honourable John Winston had
already given him. It was very short, as if it had been written in a
hurry, but nothing could have been more satisfactory. Brown, as I
suppose I must call him, said that he would be able to start with us as
soon as the car was ready, and when I mentioned where I wanted to go he
remarked that he had been all through the chateau country several times
on a motor-car. One can see from the way he talks that he's an
intelligent, competent young man (he can't be more than twenty-eight or
nine) and knows his business thoroughly. I think I'm very lucky to get
him, don't you?

_Now_ you will understand the address at the top of this long letter;
and I am writing it while James Brown and the _garage_ man fit the new
crank into the car. I must have been scribbling away for two hours, so
almost any minute my new _cha