Fairfax never forgot that last long stretch.
The sun was going down, and the shadows were growing long, and distance was creeping close. Ahead and on either hand the countryside was gone: Earth seemed to have thrown back to the days before she was tamed: Nature ran wild. Forest and furze and broom had the world to themselves. And the car shore them in two as a draper’s scissors shear stuff—league after shining league, with a steady snarl. Twice they met a lorry and three times a touring car and twenty carts, perhaps, in nearly a hundred miles. . . .
They swept through St. Geours with twenty-five miles to go.
They dropped down into Bayonne, slipped across the Adour, swung to the right at cross-roads, and followed the tram-lines out.
They had to go slowly then, for the road was narrow and full. Still, they edged their way along, passing when there was room.
They floated into Biarritz at twenty-five minutes past eight. . . .
There was no room at the Carlton, but Lady Defoe was there, so they promised to squeeze Punch in.
As a porter picked up his suit-case—
“All right, sir?” queried the chauffeur.
The eagerness of his tone touched Fairfax’ heart.