at I gave mental thanks to the glaciers which, in the ice age, had so
tastefully scooped out all this down-country into graceful curves and
majestic cliffs. After leaving the sea behind us we were ringed in,
swallowed up among lovely, gracious hills, which hid the world from
us--us from the world. For miles upon miles, a snake-like road writhed
smoothly down the sides of these hills, until at last, after a wildly
exhilarating run we found ourselves in a peaceful green valley. The
Hobby Drive was no more beautiful, and not half so exciting; but by now
we were coming to the Switzerland of England. As we sped on, great downs
rolled up behind us, and towered above our heads like the crests of huge
green waves at breaking point. Even the sky suited itself to the country
here, forming bigger, more tumbled clouds than elsewhere; and to my
surprise I saw American goldenrod, such as I used to gather as a child,
growing, quite at home, among yellow ox-eyed daisies.

There was a tremendous hill, wriggling down with wicked twists to
Lynton, and in the middle we met a car that had torn off all its tires.
Sir Lionel asked if we could do anything, but the chauffeur was so
disgusted with life that, though he snapped out "No, thank you," his
eyes said "Damn!"

At Lynton we stopped at a hotel like an exaggerated, glorified cottage,
with a thatched roof and a veranda running all round. It stands in a
big, perfumed garden, and from the windows and that quaint stone-paved
veranda you can look over the sea to the Welsh coast, whence, at
evening, two blazing eyes of light watch you across the blue water.

Sir Lionel had meant to stay only one night at the Cottage Hotel, but
Lynton was beautiful, with a siren beauty, that would not let us go.
Even his resolution wasn't proof against its witchery. So we stopped two
whole days, going "downstairs" (as I called it) to Lynmouth, to see the
old Shelley Cottage and lots of other things. But oh, what a road from
Lynton! If a young fly, when its mother takes it for its first walk down
a wall, feels as I did, crawling to Lynmouth, both brakes on, I pity it.
I wasn't exactly frightened, for I never could be, quite, with Sir
Lionel driving, but I was prickly with awe. It was a good thing Emily
didn't go with us. I believe her poor little pin-cushion heart would
have burst in sheer fright, and all the sawdust would have trickled out.
I laughed hysterically, when I saw a motor garage at the bottom. It
oug