marble still walled us away from
our journey's end. The cold was the pitiless cold of northern midwinter,
and I remembered with a shiver that Millau and Clermont-Ferrand were
separated from one another by nearly two hundred and fifty kilometres of
such mountain roads as these. Oh yes, it was an experience, a splendid,
dazzling experience; nevertheless, my cowardly thoughts would turn,
sunflower-like, toward warmth; warm rooms, even stuffy rooms, without a
single window open, fires crackling, and hot things to drink. Still, I
wouldn't admit that I was cold, and stiffened my muscles to prevent a
shudder when my brother asked me cheerfully if I would enjoy a visit to
the Gouffre de Padirac, close by.

A "gouffre" on such a day! Not all the splendours of the posters which I
had often seen and admired, could thrill me to a desire for the
expedition; but I tried to cover my real feelings with the excuse that
it must now be too late to make even a small detour. Mr. Jack Dane
laughed, and replied that he had no intention of making it; he had only
wanted to test my pluck. "I believe you'd pretend to be delighted if I
told you we had plenty of time, and mustn't miss going," said he. "But
don't be frightened; this isn't a Gouffre de Padirac day, though it
really is a great pity to pass it by. What do you say to lunch instead?"

And we rolled through a magnificent mediaeval gateway into the ancient
and unpronounceable town of Marvejols.

Before he had time to make the same suggestion to his more important
passengers, it came hastily from within the glass cage. So we stopped at
an inn which proudly named itself an hotel; and chauffeur and maid were
entertained in a kitchen destitute of air and full of clamour.
Nevertheless, it seemed a snug haven to us, and never was any soup
better than the soup of "Marvels," as Sir Samuel and Lady Turnour called
the place.

The word was "push on," however, for we had still the worst before us,
and a long way to go. The Quality had promised to finish its luncheon in
an hour; and well before the time was up, we two Worms were out in the
cold, each engaged in fulfilling its own mission. I was arranging rugs;
the chauffeur was pouring some libation from a long-nosed tin upon the
altar of his goddess when our master appeared, wearing such an "I
haven't stolen the cream or eaten the canary" expression that we knew at
once something new was in the wind.

He coughed, and floundered into explanations.