hateaux_ by delightful French
people of our own class. We know that life in such country houses can be
as charming as it is in England; yet if one had never seen it from the
inside, one would fancy in travelling that nothing of the sort existed.
Roughly, one might sum the difference up in a phrase by saying that
France presents a peasant's landscape, England a landlord's. In England
you see twenty good country houses for every one you pass in
France--excepting only the district of the Loire; and outdoor life as we
know it, on the road and on the river, doesn't seem to exist over here.
Somehow I was never so much struck with this contrast before, though I
know this country almost as well as I know my hat. Think of the English
roads and lanes, of the pretty girls and decent men one meets on
horseback or in smart dogcarts, the dowagers in victorias, the crowds of
cyclists, the occasional fine motor-car, knickerbockered men walking for
the pleasure of exercise! Here, though one knows there are more motors
than at home, one rarely comes across them out of towns; and as for
ladies and gentlemen, or, indeed, any sort of people out solely for
enjoyment, they're as rare as black opals. I look in vain for pretty
field paths and rural lanes, where workmen and their sweethearts wander
when the day is done. I suppose they prefer to do their love-making
indoors or in front of a cafe, or perhaps they sandwich it in with their
long hours of work, and that is the reason why the whole of France seems
so much more cultivated than country England--the reason why every acre
is turned to account, not a square yard of earth left untilled. It's
only the magnificent roads which aren't enough appreciated, apparently,
by the "nobility and gentry," as the tradesmen's circulars have it. And
what roads the Routes Nationales are--born for motor-cars!--varying a
little from department to department, but equally good almost
everywhere. You come to a stone marking the boundary of a department,
for instance, and crossing an imaginary line, find yourself on a
different kind of surface, each department being allowed to make it's
road after the manner which pleases it best--provided only it makes it
well.

The Route Nationale from Paris to Bayonne, along part of which we've
lately travelled, is good nearly all the way. From Dange to Poitiers is
a splendid bit, and up to Poitiers one climbs a considerable hill. It's
a cheerful town, with a fine cathedral, an