which is called the Petit St. Martin, with lovely Renaissance carving, and actually a tilleul. He showed us the oldest house in Tours, the quaintest building you could imagine, standing on a corner, with lots of other very old houses on the same street. And the Charlemagne Tower—I'm not sure, but I liked that the best of all and a marvellous fourteenth-century house, a perfect lacework of carving, which has been restored, and is called the Maison Gouin, after the rich man who lives in it. Oh, I forgot to tell you, I have bought your favourite Quentin Durward, and am sandwiching him with Balzac. Reading him over again in this country was Brown's idea for me, and I'm obliged to him for the "tip." Speaking of tips reminds me I really ought to give him one—a very large one, I'm sure, And yet it will be awkward offering it, I'm afraid. I know I shall stammer and be an idiot generally; but I shall prop my courage with the reflection that, after all, he is a chauffeur, and perhaps has, in his heart, been wondering why I haven't given him anything before.
Yesterday I saw palm trees, growing in the place, and kissed my hand to them, because they told me that we were on the threshold of the South. Another thing in Tours which suggests the South, I think, is the patisserie. Aunt Mary and I have discovered a confectioner's to conjure with; but Tours seems to have discovered him long ago, for all the "beauty and fashion" of the town go there for coffee and cakes in the afternoon. We do likewise—when we have time; and yesterday Aunt Mary ate twelve little cakes, each one different from
