haps it has the most beautiful view of all. But Loches—Loches! I had forgotten its existence till I dug it up for myself in Quentin Durward, and the guide-books, to which Aunt Mary is so faithful, don't do it any sort of justice. They don't tell you to go to see it, whatever else you must make up your mind to miss. Why, Aunt M.'s particular pet devoted almost as much space to the queer little rock village of Rochecorbon, whose lighted windows glared at us like cat's eyes away high up above the road, one dark evening (when we'd been belated after an excursion) getting back to Tours.
Luckily the Lightning Conductor appreciated Loches at its true value, and told me it was well worth making a short détour—as we must—to see. We had to go out of our way as far as a place called Cormery, but that was nothing, and yesterday morning early we started. It was the first sparkling blue-and-gold day we have had for a while; it seemed as if it must have come across to us from Provence, as a sample, to show what we might expect if we hurried on there. The air was like champagne—or Vouvray—and we spun along at our very best on the smooth, wide Route Nationale, our faces turned towards Provence as a graceful compliment for the gift of the weather.
We have a neat little trick of getting to places just in time for lunch, and we managed it at Loches, as usual. We'd hardly driven into the town before I fell in love with its quaintness; but I didn't fall in love with the hotel until I'd been surprised with a perfectly delicious déjeuner. Then I let myself go;
