at silent and
thoughtful, and attempted no sallies.

Dozens of motors arrived while we were eating, gorgeous cars with
resplendent chauffeurs, but there wasn't one to put the bonnet of
"Apollo" (as someone has named ours) out of joint; and not one chauffeur
as striking as our extraordinary Bengali in his native dress.

I forgot to mention that I bound Ellaline to secrecy before I began my
tale, saying that I'd had the information in confidence. She has her
faults, but I don't think she'd break her word. She is one of those
tall, upstanding, head-in-the-air creatures who pride themselves on
keeping a promise till it's mouldy.

My headache was better, after relieving my mind, and I enjoyed the run
to Clifton and Bristol. We had to go through the queer old gray village
of Cheddar, which was as cheesy looking as one would expect it to be;
and I suppose the Market Cross we passed must have been good, as Sir
Lionel would stop and take a photograph. As we turned out of the place
for Axbridge, I threw a glance over my shoulder, back at the exit of the
queer valley, and a carved bronze screen seemed already to have been
drawn across it.

It was a fine road; Axbridge a sort of toy village whose houses might
have been made for good little girls to play with; and to avoid the
traffic in the main road we went by way of Congresbury, where the
Milford-Joneses live. I was glad we didn't meet them driving their old
pony-chaise. I should have been ashamed to bow. There was a turn which
led us into a charming road, winding high among woods, then coming out
where the gorge of the Avon burst upon our view. It always pleases Sir
Lionel if one is enthusiastic over scenery, so I was, though I really
hated going over that awfully high suspension bridge, as I detest
looking down from heights. So does Mrs. Norton; but I can't afford to be
classed with her, therefore I joined Ellaline in exclaiming that the
bridge was glorious. I suppose it is fine, if one could only look
without fear of being seasick.

We stopped all night in Clifton, in which Miss Lethbridge was
interested, largely because of "Evelina," who stopped at the Hot Wells,
in the "most romantic part of the story." I couldn't for my life
remember who wrote "Evelina"--which was awkward; and it hasn't come back
to me yet. I always mix the book up with "Clarissa Harlowe," and so does
Dick, though, of course, he's read neither.

We went to see a lot of things in Bristol, but the best