"The boat's whistling," said the Boy. "We'd better run, if we want to see the Abbey of Hautecombe before lunch."
We did run, and caught the boat in that uncertain and exciting manner which brings into play a physical appurtenance unrecognised by science, i.e., the skin of the teeth. Under the awning which shaded the deck, we took the only two seats not occupied by an abnormally large German family,—abnormally large individually as well as collectively,—and settled ourselves for half an hour's enjoyment of a charming water-panorama.
"What a heavenly place Aix is!" exclaimed the Boy fervently. "I'm so glad I came."
"I thought yesterday that you were disappointed in the place."
"Oh, yesterday was yesterday. To-day's to-day. How glorious everything is, in the world. I do love living. And I like everybody so much. What nice, good creatures one's fellow beings are. My heart warms to them. I don't believe anybody's really horrid, through and through. I should like to pat somebody on the shoulder."
"Queer thing; I feel exactly the same way this morning," said I. "Shall we throw ourselves on one another's bosom, and kiss each other on both cheeks, German fashion, to show our good will towards all mankind? I'm sure our travelling companions would warmly sympathize with our schwärmerei."
"No-o, perhaps we'd better not risk setting them the example, for fear they should follow it."
"Then let's shake hands."
He put out his little slim brown paw, and I seized it with such heartiness that he visibly winced, but not a squeak did the pain draw from him; and the large Germans, looking on gravely, no doubt thought that, according to some queer English rite, we had registered an important vow.
Really the world was a nice place that day, though I might not have noticed it so much if the Boy and I had been still at loggerheads.