as I heard my sweet and clever little lady babbling automobilism
with all the wisdom of an amateur of six weeks, I felt that I was
indeed one of the Others. Though the Frenchman was to me a manifest Worm
(in that he was supercilious, puffed up with conceit, taking it for
granted that women should fall down and worship him) and a ridiculous
braggart, I had to see her receive his open admiration with equanimity
and listen to his stories with credulity, _my_ business being to eat in
silence and "thank Heaven" (though not "fasting") that I was allowed in
the presence of my betters. Still, I would have gone through more than
that to be near her, to hear her talk, and see her smile, for frankly
this girl begins to interest me as no other woman has.

"Ah, how I have travelled to-day!" the Frenchman said, throwing his
hands wide apart. "I left Paris this morning, to-morrow I shall be in
Biarritz. To-day I have killed a dog and three hens. On the front of my
car just now I found the bones and feathers of some birds, which
miscalculated their distance and could not get away in time." Miss
Randolph gave a little cry, translating for her aunt, who has no French.

"Shocking!" ejaculated Aunt Mary. "A regular juggernaut."

"Your car does not go as fast as that, mademoiselle?" the Frenchman went
on. "A little heavy, I should think; a slow hill-climber?"

"On the contrary," Miss Randolph fired up. "Though my car
has--er--_some_ drawbacks, it goes splendidly uphill, doesn't it,
Brown?"

"That is its strong point," I answered, grateful for the unexpected and
kindly word of recognition thrown to me, one of the Others; but the
Frenchman did not deign to notice the _chauffeur_.

"Capital!" cried he. "If mademoiselle be willing, and a hill can be
found in the neighbourhood, I should like to wager my Pieper against her
seven-horse-power German car. I had an odd experience the other day," he
went on. "My motor stopped for want of _essence_; luckily it was in a
village, but there wasn't a drop of _essence_ to be bought--all the
shops were sold out. What do you think I did, mademoiselle? I filled the
tank with absinthe from a _cafe_, and got home on that. Not many would
have thought of it, eh?"

"Few indeed," said I to myself, for it was news to me that his
carburetter could burn heavy oil. While I was reflecting that
automobiling, like fishing, is a pursuit whose followers are peculiarly
ready to sacrifice truth on the altar of pictures