ittle canals,
carrying life-giving water from the Canal de Craponne, which has its
origin at La Roque, on the Durance.

Across this vast plain we raced towards Salon, along a road straight as
if drawn by a ruler, and bordered by small poplars standing shoulder to
shoulder like trees in a child's box of toys. We met no other vehicles;
we seemed to have the world to ourselves; but once, far along the road,
we spied a black dot which seemed to come towards us with incredible
speed, growing larger as it came. In less time than it takes to write we
saw that it was an enormous racing automobile, probably undergoing a
test of speed. We were running at our own highest pace, perhaps
forty-five miles an hour; the thing approaching us was coming at seventy
or more. You may imagine the rush of air as we passed each other. One
glimpse we had of a masked automobilist like a figure of death in an
Albert Durer cartoon, or the familiar of a Vehmgericht, and then we were
gasping in the vortex of air caused by the speed of the gigantic car.
Almost before we could turn our heads it was a black dot again on the
horizon. Perhaps it was the great Fournier himself.

Beyond Salon the road becomes interestingly _accidentee_. One climbs
among the mountains which fold Marseilles in their encircling arms, and
has spacious views over the great Etang de Berre to the glittering
Mediterranean. The Napier crested the hills without faltering, and from
the top we had a long run down (over bad _pave_ at the last) into the
lively, noisy streets of gay Marseilles, Payne guiding the car very
decently over intricate tram lines, finally turning across the pavement
to circle into the white, airy court of a large hotel. When my
passengers had got down I drove the car to a _garage_ and went quietly
off to another hotel, where, warned by past experience at Pau, I entered
myself in the register modestly as James Brown.

Now I shall hurl at your devoted and friendly head this enormous letter,
and presently shall begin another to tell of the Further Adventures on
the Riviera of

Your much-enduring Friend,
The Amateur Chauffeur.

MOLLY RANDOLPH TO HER FATHER

Grand Hotel, Toulon,
_December 20_.

My Wingless Angel,

It's lucky your poor dear hair is getting conspicuo