y of stars, though the air seemed faintly to vibrate with the
continuous, solemn note. Suddenly the meaning of the sound came to me;
it was the majestic music of the Atlantic surf beating on the bar ten
miles away. But it was too divine standing there in the night with Her
in silence. For a moment I had not the heart to speak and tell her of my
discovery. A faint light came to us from the stars and from the
curtained windows of the hotel. I could just see her face and her lovely
great eyes looking up questioningly in absolute confidence at me. Jove,
what wouldn't I have given just then to be Jack Winston and not Brown!
If I had been, that girl wouldn't have got back into the house without
being proposed to, and having another "scalp" to count, as they say
American beauties do. Not that I think she'd be that kind. I don't know
how long I shouldn't have tried to make the magic of the moment last, if
Aunt Mary hadn't bounced out of the hotel (done up in a shawl, like a
large parcel) to call "Molly! Molly, it's time you came in!"

Molly didn't move, but Aunt Mary descended the steps, relentless as
fate; so I made the most of my information, and added a short
disquisition on Arcachon oysters and oyster fishing, for the sake of
retaining the Goddess's society. Unfortunately, however, I happened to
remark that the oyster women wore trousers exactly like the men, and
this so disgusted Miss Kedison that she incontinently dragged her niece
from the contamination of the _chauffeur's_ presence.

Next day was Sunday. Miss Randolph went to the English church, which is
the prettiest I've ever seen in France, and afterwards, escorted by the
chaplain with whom she'd made friends, went forth to see the sights,
while I inquired as to how we might best proceed upon our way. While
Miss Randolph and Miss Kedison read their prayer-books, I studied that
useful volume, _Les Routes de France_, and was duly warned against the
impracticable roads of the Landes. The one thing to do, according to the
oracle, was to return to Bordeaux and make a long detour to Bayonne by
Mont de Marsan. I knew Miss Randolph would dislike this plan, for she
hates going back, and so do I. If I had been alone, or with you, I
would have chanced it without a moment's hesitation, making straight for
Bayonne by way of the forbidden Landes, with all its pitfalls. But I
funked the idea of perhaps getting Her into a mess--and hearing Aunt
Mary say "I told you so," as she invar