than mine
(Irishmen in debt always do have things superior to those of every one
else); we had motor-coats, and enough guide-books and road-maps to stock
a small library; and when these were collected we were ready for the
Great Adventure.

When Terry visits me at the Chalet des Pins, he keeps his car at a
garage in Mentone. His habit has been to put up his chauffeur close by
this garage, and telephone when he wants to use the car; but the
chauffeur was paid off and sent away ten days ago, at about the time
when Terry decided that the automobile must be sold. He had not been in
spirits for a drive since, until the fateful day of the advertisement,
but immediately after our luncheon with the Countess he had walked down
to the garage and stayed until dinner-time. What he had been doing there
he did not deign to state; but I had a dim idea that when you went to
call on a motor-car in its den, you spent hours on your back bolting
nuts, or accelerating silencers, or putting the crank head (and
incidentally your own) into an oil bath; and I supposed that Terry had
been doing these things. When he returned on Wednesday, Thursday, and
Friday, spending several hours on each occasion, I went on supposing the
same; but when at nine o'clock on Saturday morning he drove up to the
garden gate after another trip to Mentone, I had a surprise.

Terry had almost bitten off my head when I had innocently proposed to
have his car smartened up to suit the taste of the Countess; but,
without saying a word to me, he had been at work improving its
appearance.

"She" (as he invariably calls his beloved vehicle) was dressed in grey
as before, but it was fresh, glossy grey, still smelling of turpentine.
The tyres were new, and white, and a pair of spare ones were tied onto
the motor's bonnet, which looked quite jaunty now in its clean
lead-coloured paint.

The shabby cushions of the driver's seat and tonneau had been re-covered
also with grey, and wherever a bit of brass was visible it glittered
like pure gold.

At the sound of the Panhard's sob at the gate, Felicite and I hurried
down the path, armed with the two coats and suit-cases, there to be
surprised by the rejuvenated car, and dumbfounded by a transformed
Terry.

"Mon Dieu, comme il est beau, comme ca," cried my domestic miracle
worker, lost in admiration of a tall, slim, yet athletic figure, clad
from head to foot in black leather. "Mais--mais ce n'est pas comme il
faut pour un