ration. "To the 'Lightning Conductor'!" said I, raising my glass.
"What lightning conductor? And what do you mean?" inquired Aunt Mary.
"The one and only Lightning Conductor—Brown," I explained. "I have just thought of that as a good name for him, now that he has a chance to spin us across the world at such a pace with a new car."
"I do hope, my dear Molly," severely remarked Aunt Mary, setting down her glass with an indignant little thud, "you will not call that young man any such thing to his face. He has already been allowed far too many liberties, and though I must say he has not to any great extent taken undue advantage of them so far, he may break out at any moment."
I'm sorry to tell you, Dad, that I said "Pooh!" and asked her if she thought Brown were an active volcano. Anyway, whether I call him so "to his face" or not, the "Lightning Conductor" he is, and will remain for me, though perhaps he wouldn't be flattered at being "launched and christened" with mere Vouvray.
I didn't expect to like Tours half as much as I do. But we have been here for three days, and though I thought at first there was only one long street, we've found something interesting to see every hour of daylight—so I write in the evenings in our cosy sitting-room. Or if I don't write, I read Balzac. I never appreciated him as I do here, on his "native heath." I have begged Brown to name his master's car "Balzac," because it, too, is a "violent and complicated genius." I've gazed at the
