"It's not half-past twelve yet," she said slowly. My brother-in-law groaned. "Still … I don't know…. After all, we did have breakfast rather early, didn't we?"
Berry smacked his lips.
"A sensible woman," he said, "is above boobies."
As he spoke, Ping swept by stormily.
There was a moment's silence. Then—
"Hurray," cried Adèle excitedly; "we've got a rise!"
It was patently true. Jonah was wishful to reassure himself upon a point which an hour ago he had taken for granted. The reflection that at the moment we had not been trying to outdistance him increased our delight. All the same, his ability to out-drive us was unquestionable. But whether he could give us the start he had agreed to was another matter.
We ate a festive lunch….
An hour with Poitiers is like a sip of old wine.
The absence of the stir and bustle which fret her sister capitals is notable. So reverend and thoughtful is the old grey-muzzled town that it is hard to recognise the bristling war-dog that bestrode the toughest centuries, snarled in the face of Fate, and pulled down Time. The old soldier has got him a cassock and become a gentle-faced dominie. The sleepy music of bells calling, the pensive air of study, the odour of simple piety, the sober confidence of great possessions, are most impressive. Poitiers has beaten her swords into crosiers and her spears into tuning-forks. Never was there an old age so ripe, so mellow, so becoming. With this for evidence, you may look History in the eyes and swear that you have seen Poitiers in the prime of her full life. The dead will turn in their graves to hear you; children unborn will say you knew no better. And Poitiers will take the threefold compliment with a grave smile. She has heard it so often.