These meant Valescure, said the
chauffeur; and the Grand Hotel--not classic looking, but pretty in its
terraced garden--meant luncheon.
The car drew up before the door, according to order, or rather,
according to hypnotic suggestion; for it seems that it is the chauffeur
who alone knows anything of the way, and who, while appearing to be
non-committal, is virtually planning the tour. "Valescure might be a
good stopping-place for lunch," he had murmured, an eye on the road map
over which his head bent with Sir Samuel's. "Very beautiful--rather
exclusive. You may remember Mr. Chamberlain stopped there."
The exclusiveness and the Chamberlain-ness decided Lady Turnour, behind
Sir Samuel's shoulder (so the chauffeur told me); consequently, here we
were--and not at St. Raphael, which would have seemed the more obvious
place to stop.
I say "we," but Lady Turnour would have been surprised to hear that her
maid dared count herself and a chauffeur in the programme. Creatures
like us must be fed, just as you pour petrol into the tanks of a motor,
or stoke a furnace with coals, because otherwise our mechanism wouldn't
go, and that would be awkward when we were wanted.
Pages:
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94