been there. I rejoiced that my little Pal was
not one of these; but I should have been more prudent had I waited.

We drove on, after a pause for inspection, along a road which would
have rejoiced the motor-loving heart of Jack Winston, and I made a
note to tell him what a magnificent tour he might have in this
enchanted country one day with his car, tooling down from Milan. As I
mentally arranged my next letter to the Winstons, the Boy gave a
little cry of delight. "Oh, what a queer, delightful place! It's all
towers, just held together by a thread of castle. It must be
Aymaville."

I looked up and beheld on a high hill an extraordinary chateau,
something like four chess castles grouped together at the corners of a
square heap of dice. It does not sound an attractive description, yet
the place deserved that adjective. It was charming, and wonderfully
"liveable," among its vineyards, commanding such a view as is given to
few show-places in the world.

"The descendants of the original family have restored it, and live
there, don't they?" asked the Boy in Italian of the _cocher_.

The man answered that this was the case, and was inspired by my evil
genius to enquire if _ces messieurs_ would like to go over the
chateau.

"Is it allowed?" the Boy questioned eagerly.

"But certainly. Shall I drive up to the house? It will be only an all
little ten minutes."

Without waiting for my answer, the Boy took my consent for granted,
and said yes.

Instantly we left the broad white road, and began winding up a narrow,
steep, and stony way, among vineyards. The _cocher's_ all little ten
minutes lengthened into half an hour, but at last we halted before a
garden gate--a high, uncompromising, reserved-looking gate.

"The fellow must be mistaken," said I. "This place has not the air of
encouraging visitors;" but, before the words were out of my mouth, the
enterprising _cocher_ had rung the gate bell.

After an interval a gardener appeared, and betrayed such mild,
ingenuous surprise at sight of us that I wished ourselves anywhere
else than before the portals of the Chateau d'Aymaville. Gladly would
I have whipped up our fat, barrel-shaped nag, and driven into the
nearest rabbit-hole, but it was too late. The gardener took the
enquiry as to whether visitors were admitted, with the gravity he
would have given to a question in the catechism: Is your name N. or
M.? Can one see your master's house?

Oh, without doubt, one could