"And now," said Daphne, with the Michelin Guide open upon her knees, "now for Montreuil."
When five minutes had passed and my brother-in-law was breathing through his nose less audibly, I lighted a cigarette and ventured to look about me.
It was certainly a fine highway that we were using. Broad, direct, smooth beyond all expectation, it lay like a clean-cut sash upon the countryside, rippling away into the distance as though it were indeed that long, long lane that hath no turning. Presently a curve would come to save the face of the proverb, but the bends were few in number, and, as a general rule, did little more than switch the road a point or two to east or west, as, the mood took them. There was little traffic, and the surface was dry.
Something had been said about the two cars keeping together, but I was not surprised when Jonah passed us like a whirlwind before we were half-way to Samer. He explained afterwards that he had stuck it as long as he could, but that to hold a car down to twenty on a road like a private racing-track was worse than "pulling."
Fired by Jonah's example, Berry laid hold of the wheel, and we took the next hill at twenty-five.
It was a brilliant day, but the cold was intense, and I think we were all glad that Pong was a closeable car. That Winter's reign had begun was most apparent. There was a bleak look upon the country's face: birch-rods that had been poplars made us gaunt avenues: here and there the cold jewellery of frost was sparkling. I fell to wondering how far south we must go to find it warmer.
Presently we came to Montreuil.
As we entered the little town—
"This," said I, "was the headquarters of the British Expeditionary
Force. From behind these walls——"
"Don't talk," said Daphne, "or I shall make a mistake. Round to the left here. Wait a minute. No, that's right. And straight on. What a blessing this Michelin Guide is! Not too fast, Berry. Straight on. This ought to be Grande Rue." She peered out of the window. "Yes, that's right. Now, in a minute you turn to the left…."