It was deliciously
restful at first to sit there, seeing beautiful things as we flashed by,
able to enjoy them in peace without having to make conversation, as the
ordinary _jeune fille_ must with the ordinary _jeune monsieur_.
"And is it that you love the automobilism, mademoiselle?"
"But yes, I love the automobilism. And you?"
"I also." (Hang it, what shall I say to her next?)
"And the dust. It does not too much annoy you?"
(Oh, bother, I do wish he'd let me alone!)
"No, monsieur. Because there are compensations. The scenery, is it not?"
"And for me your society." (What a little idiot she is!)
And so on. And so on. Oh yes, there were consolations in being a motor
maid, sitting as far away as possible from a cross-looking if rather
handsome chauffeur, who would want to bite her if she tried to do the
"society act."
But after a while, when we'd spun past the charming villas and
attractive shops of Cannes (which looks so deceitfully sylvan, and is
one of the gayest watering-places in the world) silence began to be a
burden.
It is such a nice motor car, and I did want to ask intelligent questions
about it!
I was almost sure they would be intelligent, because already I know
several things about automobiles.
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