We drive on for a mile or two till we reach the summit of the plateau.
Here, at a height of 2,952 feet above the sea-level, is a ruined
chateau turned into a farmhouse, where we rest our horses a little and
prepare to make tea. The farmer's wife and two children come out to
chat with our driver and look at us, evidently welcoming such a
distraction. And no wonder! I brought out our bonbon box--one must
never take a drive in France unprovided with sweetmeats--and tried to
tame the children; but they clung to mother's skirts, and only
consented to have the bonbons popped into their mouths, with faces
shyly hidden in her apron.

'Would you like a cup of tea?' I asked.

But madame shook her head, giggling, and I do not suppose ever heard of
such an infusion in her life.

Meantime, tea-making on that breezy eminence was no easy matter. The
little flames of my spirit-lamp were blown hither and thither--anywhere
but in the right direction. At last our excellent driver, resourceful
as a true son of Gaul is bound to be, lifted up the tiny machine, all
afire as it was, and thrust it into that convenient box behind the
caleche all travellers know of. The good man burnt his fingers, but had
the satisfaction of making the water boil, and there for the first
time, without doubt, tea was made after the English fashion. No place
could be better adapted for a holiday resort. In summer these sweeps
are one gorgeous mosaic of wild-flowers, and the short stunted grass
shoots up, making verdure everywhere.

As I sipped tea, squatted gipsy-wise on the ground, the thought