than a person behind. And of course I did not expect her to prefer my
life to her daughter's. Poor lady! My heart was with her. As the car
glided along the sea-front and then under the Norman archway, through
the town, and past the environs, I wished that her husband inspired in her
as much confidence as he did in me. For me the sight of his clear, firm
profile (he did not wear motor-goggles) was an assurance in itself. From
time to time (for I, too, was ungoggled) I looked round to nod and smile
cheerfully at his wife. She always returned the nod, but left the smile to
be returned by the daughter.

Pethel, like the good driver he was, did not talk; just drove. But as
we came out on to the Rouen road he did say that in France he always
rather missed the British police-traps. "Not," he added, "that I've ever
fallen into one. But the chance that a policeman MAY at any
moment dart out, and land you in a bit of a scrape does rather add to the
excitement, don't you think?" Though I answered in the tone of one to whom
the chance of a police-trap is the very salt of life, I did not inwardly
like the spirit of his remark. However, I dismissed it from my mind.
The sun was shining, and the wind had dropped: it was an ideal day
for motoring, and the Norman landscape had never looked lovelier to me
in its width of sober and silvery grace.


*The other names in this memoir are, for good reason, pseudonyms.


I presently felt that this landscape was not, after all, doing itself full
justice. Was it not rushing rather too quickly past? "James!" said a
shrill, faint voice from behind, and gradually--"Oh, darling Mother,
really!" protested another voice--the landscape slackened pace. But after