erfectly happy sitting all day in a cramped
position in an automobile, covered with dust or wet with sudden showers;
tired, hungry, putting up with all sorts of discomforts by the way, and
half the time frightened out of my wits by appalling precipices or
terrific wild beasts? But happy I am, happier than I've ever been,
though I keep asking myself, or Maida, or Beechy, "_Why_ is it so nice?"

Maida says she doesn't know why, she only knows it is, and much more
than nice. "The Quintessence of Joy-of-Life," that is what she has named
the sensation; and as Maida uses it, it is sure to be all right, though
I must admit that to me it sounds almost improper.

Then there is another thing which strikes me as queer about myself and
the two girls since we've been travelling in an automobile. We used to
be glad when a train journey was over, and thankful to arrive at almost
any place, whether it was beautiful or not, but now we're always in a
perfect fever to go on--on--on. We shoot into some marvellous old town,
that we would once have thought worth coming hundreds of miles just to
see; and instead of wanting to get out of the motor-car and wander
about, visiting all the churches or museums or picture-galleries, we
think what a pity to spoil the record of so many miles in so many hours.
If we stop long of course it brings down the average, and that seems
nothing less than a calamity, though why on earth we should care so
much, or care at all (considering we have our whole future before us) is
a mystery. Even Maida, who is so fond of history, and countries that
have made history in dim old ages, feels this. She thinks there is a
motoring microbe that gets into your blood, just as other microbes do,
so that it's a disease, only instead of being disagreeable it's almost
dangerously pleasant. You know you ought to pause and do justice to a
place, says Maida, but the motoring microbe wriggles and writhes against
the decision of your reason, and you have to use violent measures before
you can dull it into a state of coma for a while.

Mr. Barrymore tries to explain this phenomenon by arguing that, of all
modern means of getting about the world, motoring is in itself the most
enjoyable. The mere journey is as good a part of your tour as any, if
not better; and that's the reason why, according to him, you never have
the same longing to "get there" or "stay there" (wherever "there" may
be) that you have when you travel by train, or boat