old smiling waiter had trotted off with our order, murmuring benevolently, "Doude de zuide, M'sieur," like a true compatriot of Tartarin.
"A faint pink from the cheeks is undeniably reflected upon it," admitted the chauffeur. "We 're going to be let in for a cold snap as we get up north," he went on. "I read in the papers this morning that there 's been a 'phenomenal fall of snow for the season' on the Cevennes and the mountains of Auvergne. Do you weaken on the Gorges of the Tarn now I 've told you that?"
"Mine not to reason why. Mine but to do or die," I transposed, smiling with conspicuous bravery.
"Not at all. It's yours to choose. I haven't even broken the Gorges, yet, to the slaves of my hypnotic powers. I warn you that, if all the papers say about snow is true, we may have adventures on the way. Would you rather ⸺"
"I'd rather have the adventures," I broke in, and had as nearly as possible added "with you," but I stopped myself in time.
We lunched more gaily than double-dyed millionaires, and afterward, while my host was paying away his hard-earned francs for our food, I slipped out of the restaurant and into a little shop I had noticed close by. The window was full of odds and ends, souvenirs of Avignon; and there were picture-postcards, photographs, and coins with heads of saints on them. In passing, on the way to lunch, I 'd noticed a silver St. Christopher, about the size of a two-franc piece; and as the Aigle carries the saint like a figure-head, a glittering, golden statuette six
