ildren pass through Couhe-Verac, they may see a statue to the
blue-eyed landlord of its little inn.

Beyond Couhe-Verac we had our first dog accident. Dogs, you know, are as
great a nuisance to automobiles as they are to cycles, and they charge
at one's car with such vehemence that their impetus almost carries them
under the wheels. Sometimes they show their strength by galloping
alongside the car for a couple of hundred yards, barking so furiously
the while that their bodies are contorted by the violence of the effort.
I was driving at a moderate pace (something under thirty miles an hour)
when a beautiful collie which had been standing by the roadside walked
quietly out and planted himself with his back to me in front of the car.
The fact was that he saw his master coming along the road, and had gone
forward to greet him. The whole thing happened in an instant, so that I
had no time to stop. I think the dog must have been deaf not to hear the
noise of the car. I shouted, but he took no notice. To swerve violently
to one side was to risk upsetting the car; besides, there was no room to
do this as another vehicle happened to be passing. If there had been
only the car to sacrifice, I would have sacrificed it to save that
collie; but I couldn't sacrifice Miss Randolph. There was nothing for it
but to drive over the dog. With a sickening wrench of the heart, I saw
the nice beast disappear under the front of the car. Instantly slowing
down, I looked behind me expecting to see a mangled corpse. But there
was the dog rolling over and over on the road. Clearly some under part
of the car had struck him and sent him spinning. The noise, the
unexpected blow, the fierce, hot blast of the poisonous exhaust pouring
into his face, must have made the poor fellow think that he had struck a
travelling earthquake. But happily he was unhurt. As I looked he got on
to his feet, and with his tail between his legs, ran to his master for
consolation. Our last glimpse showed us that comedy had followed
tragedy, for the master was beating the dog with a cane for getting in
our way. I was afraid Miss Randolph would scream or faint, but she did
neither, only turned white as marble, and never looked prettier in her
life. Aunt Mary yelled, of course, but more in fear for ourselves than
for the collie, I think. She says she would like dogs better "if their
bark could be extracted."

Angouleme is, like Poitiers, a town set upon a hill, a quaint old to