MOLLY RANDOLPH TO HER FATHER
Tours, December 3.
Three days since I wrote, blessed old Thing, but it seems three times three, for all the hours have been as cramfull as you used to fill my stocking at Christmas.
We couldn't get away from Amboise, as we expected, because the tyres didn't arrive till late in the evening. I knew it must be a long, tedious business fixing them on, so I never dreamed of starting next morning; but when morning came, and with it the chambermaid and my bath, there was a note from Brown, written in a hand a lot nicer than my poor "fist," announcing that the car was ready, and if I would like a surprise, might he "respectfully suggest" that I should come down-stairs as soon as possible. You can imagine that I didn't "stand on the order of my going." My hair crinkled with surprise at being done so quickly, and I was in such a hurry that I nearly—but not quite—slid down the balusters.
Brown was at the front door, with the car all politely polished, and seeming to stand upon tiptoe on its big new tyres. But smart as the car was, it was nothing to the chauffeur. He looked like a sort of male Cinderella just after the fairy godmother
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