their serrated line far away to the right, their snowy tops spectral over an intervening range of hills; to the left stretched a vast, undulating tract of country, with towns and church spires distinctly outlined in the blear, crisp air—for it was a day of glorious lights. Beyond all was a range of vague, blue hills which I knew to be the Cevennes, sacred to the memory of Robert Louis Stevenson.
We sped through village after village—a long street; children in blouses playing strange games, disputing in shrill voices, wagging little eloquent fingers under each other's noses; handsome men clothed in blue, with red sashes and the universal berret on their heads, guiding with their cruel goads patient teams of yoked oxen; a group of persons round a church door—a wedding, perhaps a funeral; old women knitting in the sun, young women smiling from windows—all these impressions follow each other like flickering pictures in a cinematograph; and then with the last flicker one is out again on the broad, white road, with the flying trees spinning by on either hand, and the white, filmy clouds floating in an azure sky. It is only on the motor-car that you get all these sensations. In a train you are in a box; on a motor you are in a chariot of fire with the wide heavens open above you.
At Castelnaudary there was another scene of animation, for here also it was market day; and though it was only twenty miles or so on to Carcassonne (out intended destination), my betters decided that they would take luncheon at the hotel in Castelnaudary. For the first time since Payne has been with us Miss
