THE WHODUNIT COLLECTION: British Murder Mysteries (15 Novels in One Volume). Charles Norris Williamson

out of respect for your own soul; and there's a great deal in that point of view, in one's noblest moments; but one's noblest moments are like bubbles, radiant while they last, then going pop! quite to one's own surprise, leaving one all flat, and nothing to show for the late bubble except a little commonplace soap.

      Well, I am like that, and when I'm not nobly bubbling I love to say what I'm thinking to somebody who will understand, instead of feeding on myself.

      It really was a waste of good material to see all that lovely scenery slipping by like a panorama, and to be having quite heavenly thoughts about it, which must slip away too, and be lost for ever. I got to the pass when it would have been a relief to be asked if "this were my first visit to the Riviera;" because I could hastily have said "Yes," and then broken out with a volley of impressions.

      Seeing beautiful things when you travel by rail consists mostly on getting half a glimpse, beginning to exclaim, "Oh, look there!" then plunging into the black gulf of a tunnel, and not coming out again until after the best bit has carefully disappeared behind an uninteresting, fat-bodied mountain. But travelling by motor-car! Oh, the difference! One sees, one feels; one is never, never bored, or impatient to arrive anywhere. One would enjoy being like the famous brook, and "go on forever."

      Other automobiles were ahead of us, other cars were behind us, in the procession of Nomads leaving the South for the North, but there had been rain in the night, so that the wind carried little dust. My spirit sang when we had left the long, cool avenue lined with the great silver-trunked plane trees (which seemed always, even in sunshine, to be dappled with moonlight) and dashed toward the barrier of the Esterels that flung itself across our path. The big blue car bounded up the steep road, laughing and purring, like some huge creature of the desert escaped from a cage, regaining its freedom. But every time we neared a curve it was considerate enough to slow down, just enough to swing round with measured rhythm, smooth as the rocking of a child's cradle.

      Perhaps, thought I, the chauffeur wasn't cross, but only concentrated. If I had to drive a powerful, untamed car like this, up and down roads like that, I should certainly get motor-car face, a kind of inscrutable, frozen mask that not all the cold cream in the world could ever melt.

      I wondered if he resorted to cold cream, and before I knew what I was doing, I found myself staring at the statuesque brown profile through my talc triangle.

      Evidently animal magnetism can leak through talc, for suddenly the chauffeur glanced sharply round at me, as if I had called him. "Did you speak?" he asked.

      "Dear me, no, I shouldn't have dared," I hurried to assure him. Again he transferred his attention from the road to me, though only a fraction, and for only the fraction of a second. I felt that he saw me as an eagle on the wing might see a fly on a boulder toward which he was steering between intervening clouds.

      "Why shouldn't you dare?" he wanted to know.

      "One doesn't usually speak to lion-tamers while they're engaged in taming," I murmured, quite surprised at my audacity and the sound of my own voice.

      The chauffeur laughed. "Oh!" he said.

      "Or to captains of ocean liners on the bridge in thick fogs," I went on with my illustrations.

      "What do you know about lion-tamers and captains on ocean liners?" he inquired.

      "Nothing. But I imagine. I'm always doing a lot of imagining."

      "Do you think you will while you're with Lady Turnour?"

      "She hasn't engaged my brain, only my hands and feet."

      "And your time."

      "Oh, thank goodness it doesn't take time to imagine. I can imagine all the most glorious things in heaven and earth in the time it takes you to put your car at the next corner."

      He looked at me longer, though the corner seemed dangerously near—to an amateur. "I see you've learned the true secret of living," said he.

      "Have I? I didn't know."

      "Well, you have. You may take it from me. I'm a good deal older than you are."

      "Oh, of course, all really polite men are older than the women they're with."

      "Even chauffeurs?"

      It was my turn to laugh now. "A chauffeur with a lady's-maid."

      "You seem an odd sort of lady's-maid."

      "I begin to think you're an odd sort of chauffeur."

      "Why?"

      "Well—" I hesitated, though I knew why, perfectly. "Aren't you rather abrupt in your questions? Suppose we change the subject. You seem to have tamed this tiger until it obeys you like a kitten."

      "That's what I get my wages for. But why do you think I'm an odd sort of chauffeur?"

      "For that matter, then, why do you think I'm an odd lady's-maid?"

      "As to that, probably I'm no judge. I never talked to one except my mother's, and she—wasn't at all like you."

      "Well, that proves my point. The very fact that your mother had a maid, shows you're an odd sort of chauffeur."

      "Oh! You mean because I wasn't always 'what I seem,' and that kind of Family Herald thing? Do you think it odd that a chauffeur should be by way of being a gentleman? Why, nowadays the woods and the story-books are full of us. But things are made pleasanter for us in books than in real life. Out of books people fight shy of us. A 'shuvvie' with the disadvantage of having been to a public school, or handicapped by not dropping his H's, must knock something off his screw."

      "Are you really in earnest, or are you joking?" I asked.

      "Half and half, perhaps. Anyway, it isn't a particularly agreeable position—if that's not too big a word for it. I envy you your imagination, in which you can shut yourself up in a kind of armour against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune."

      "You wouldn't envy me if you had to do Lady Turnour's hair," I sighed.

      The chauffeur laughed out aloud. "Heaven forbid!" he exclaimed.

      "I'm sure Sir Samuel would forbid, anyhow," said I.

      "Do you know, I don't think this trip's going to be so bad?" said he.

      "Neither do I," I murmured in my veil.

      We both laughed a good deal then. But luckily the glass was expensively thick, and the car was singing.

      "What are you laughing at?" I asked.

      "Something that it takes a little sense of humour to see, when you've been down on your luck," said he.

      "A sense of humour was the only thing my ancestors left me," said I. "I don't wonder you laugh. It really is quaintly funny."

      "Do you think we're laughing at the same thing?"

      "I'm almost sure of it."

      "Do tell me your part, and let's compare notes."

      "Well, it's something that nobody but us in this car—unless it's the car itself—knows."

      "Then it is the same thing. They haven't an idea of it, and wouldn't believe it if anyone told them. Yes, it is funny."

      "About their not being—"

      "While you—"

      "And you—"

      "Thanks. A lady—"

      "A gentleman—"

      "And the only ones on board—"

      "Are the two servants!"

      "As long as they don't notice—"

      "And we do!"

      "Perhaps we may get some fun out of it?"

      "Extra—outside our wages. Would it be called a 'perquisite'?"

      "If