trip on which he was starting.

"I don't know just where we are going," he said. "I leave all that to
Oram. The rest of us don't care, and Oram loves to spend hours hunting
up reasons why we should go to this small village that is picturesque,
or that tiny hamlet that is historic. I'm sure the queer little French
towns will all look alike to me, and I'm not awfully keen about such
things anyhow. I go for the out-door life, and the swift motion, and the
fresh air and all that sort of thing."

"I love that part of it, too," said Patty, "but also I like seeing the
funny little towns with their narrow streets and squealing dogs. I think
I have never been through a French village that wasn't just spilling
over with squealing dogs."

"That's because you always go through them in an automobile. If you were
on a walking tour now, you'd find the dogs all asleep. But the paramount
idea in a French dog's brain is that he was made for the purpose of
waking up and barking at motor cars."

"Well, they're most faithful to what they consider their duty, then,"
said Patty, laughing, for even as she spoke they were whizzing through a
straggling, insignificant little village, and dogs of all sizes and
colours seemed to spring up suddenly from nowhere at all, and act as if
about to devour the car and its occupants.

But notwithstanding the dogs, the villages were exceedingly picturesque,
and Patty loved to drive through them slowly, that she might see
glimpses of the life of the people. And it was almost always necessary
to go slowly, for the streets were so narrow, and the sidewalks a mere