eyes.

"It's not half-past twelve yet," she said slowly. My brother-in-law
groaned. "Still ... I don't know.... After all, we did have
breakfast rather early, didn't we?"

Berry smacked his lips.

"A sensible woman," he said, "is above boobies."

As he spoke, Ping swept by stormily.

There was a moment's silence. Then--

"Hurray," cried Adele excitedly; "we've got a rise!"

It was patently true. Jonah was wishful to reassure himself upon a
point which an hour ago he had taken for granted. The reflection that
at the moment we had not been trying to outdistance him increased our
delight. All the same, his ability to out-drive us was unquestionable.
But whether he could give us the start he had agreed to was another
matter.

We ate a festive lunch....

An hour with Poitiers is like a sip of old wine.

The absence of the stir and bustle which fret her sister capitals is
notable. So reverend and thoughtful is the old grey-muzzled town that
it is hard to recognise the bristling war-dog that bestrode the
toughest centuries, snarled in the face of Fate, and pulled down Time.
The old soldier has got him a cassock and become a gentle-faced
dominie. The sleepy music of bells calling, the pensive air of study,
the odour of simple piety, the sober confidence of great possessions,
are most impressive. Poitiers has beaten her swords into crosiers and
her spears into tuning-forks. Never was there an old age so ripe, so
mellow, so becoming. With this for evidence, you may look History in
the eyes and swear that you have seen Poitiers in the prime of her full
life. The dead will turn in their graves to hear you; children unborn
will say you knew no better. And Poitiers will take the threefold
compliment with a grave smile. She has heard it so often.

Celt, Roman, Visigoth, Moor, Englishman--all these have held Poitiers
in turn. Proud of their tenure, lest History should forget, three at
least of them have set up their boasts in stone. The place was, I
imagine, a favourite. Kings used her, certainly. Dread Harry
Plantagenet gave her a proud cathedral. Among her orchards Coeur de
Lion worshipped Jehane, jousted, sang of a summer evening, and spent
his happiest days. Beneath her shadow the Black Prince lighted such a
candle of Chivalry as has never yet been put out. Not without honour
of her own countrymen, for thirteen years the High Court of Parliament
preferred her to Paris. Within her walls the sain