ing, "Dear me, how horrid!" before you take another sip.

Terry started the car, and though it carried five persons and enough
luggage for ten (I speak of men, not women), we shot away along the
perfect road, like an arrow from the bow.

At our first fine panther bound, Mrs. Kidder half rose in her seat and
seized my right arm, while Beechy's little hand clutched anxiously at my
left knee.

"Oh, mercy!" the Countess exclaimed. "Tell him not to go so fast--oh,
quick! we'll be killed."

"No, we won't, Don't be frightened; it's all right," I answered
soothingly, primed by my late experience in leaving the Chalet des Pins.
"Why, we're going slowly--_crawling_ at the rate of twenty--"

"Fifteen!" laughed our chauffeur over his shoulder.

"Fifteen miles an hour," I amended my sentence wondering in what way the
shock of surprise had affected the Vestal Virgin. Somehow I couldn't
fancy her clawing weakly at any part of Terry's person. "You wouldn't
have us go slower, would you? The Prince is sure to be watching."

"Oh, I don't _know_," wailed Mrs. Kidder. "I didn't think it would be
like this. Isn't it awful?"

"I believe I--I'm going to like it by-and-by," gasped Beechy, her eyes
as round as half-crowns, and as big. "Maida, have you _fainted_?"

Miss Destrey looked back into the tonneau, her face pale, but radiant.
"I wouldn't waste time fainting," said she. "I'm buckling on my wings."

"Wish she were a coward!" I thought. "Terry hates 'em like poison, and
would never forgive her if she didn't worship motoring at the first
go-off." As for me, I have always found a certain piquant charm in a
timid woman. There is a subtle flattery in her almost unconscious appeal
to superior courage in man which is perhaps especially sweet to an
undersized chap like me; and I had never felt more kindly to the
Countess and her daughter than I did at this moment.

As Lothair with his Corisande, I "soothed and sustained their agitated
frames" so successfully, that the appealing hands stole back to their
respective laps, but not to rest in peace for long. The car breasted the
small hill at the top of the Cap, sturdily, and we sped on towards
Mentone, which, with its twin, sickle bays, was suddenly disclosed like
a scene on the stage when the curtains have been noiselessly drawn
aside. The picture of the beautiful little town, with its background of
clear-cut mountains, called forth quavering exclamations from our
reviving passengers; bu