he was a raving, tearing "swell," even if he wasn't exactly a duke. I can't remember how it began, but really it was Aunt Mary and not I who chattered about our trip, and how we were abroad for the first time, and were going to "do" Europe as soon as we had "done" England.
The Gorgeous Man had lived in France (he seems to have lived nearly everywhere, and to know everybody and everything worth knowing), and, said he, "What a pity we couldn't do our tour on a motor-car! " At that I became flippant, and inquired which, in his opinion, would be more suitable as chauffeur—Aunt Mary or I; whereupon he announced that he was not joking, but serious. We ought to have a motor-car and a chauffeur. Then we might say, like Monte Cristo, "The world is mine."
He went on to tell of the wonderful journeys he'd made in his car, "which we might have noticed outside." It seemed it was better than any other sort of car in the world; in fact there was no other exactly like it, as it had been made especially for him. You simply couldn't break it, it was so strong; the engine would outlast two of any other kind; and one of the advantages was that it had belts and a marvellous arrangement called a "jockey pulley" to regulate the speed: consequently it ran more "sweetly" (that was the word he used) than gear-driven cars, which, according to him, jerk, and are noisy, break easily, and do all sorts of disagreeable things.
By the time we were half through lunch I was envying him his car, and feeling as if life wasn't
