not bad for an amateur mécanicien. All the people of the inn and many of the villagers gathered round to see the great sight, and Aunt Mary consoled herself by showing off her somewhat eccentric French to the landlady and her family.
There were three generations in this group, I took time to notice. A bowed and wrinkled old dame; her daughter, a strong, sad-faced woman in black; and a golden-haired granddaughter, about the prettiest creature I ever saw—bar one. And it was charming to see my Goddess laying herself out to be nice to the trio. Her personality (which is the last word in well-groomed, high-strung, vivacious American girlhood) contrasted strikingly with these countrywomen, who had perhaps never been outside their own forest. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but she has the most extraordinary way of always hitting on the right thing to please and interest people, without departing from truth or descending to flattery. All three gazed at her with delight and admiration, the little beauty of the Landes with deepening colour and wistful eyes. No Frenchwoman, no Englishwoman, no woman save an American of the best type, could have exactly that manner, which is indescribable to one who doesn't know. Strange for a vision like that to flash into these quiet lives, then flash away, never to be seen again—only remembered.
It was too early for luncheon, but as we had had the shelter of the inn I wanted to order something for "the good of the house." I accordingly asked for Bordeaux and biscuits, and the pretty rose of a
