On leaving Montereau they spun along the excellent road at the rate of thirty-five miles an hour.
“I presume they have a speed limit in France,” said Maurice, warningly.
“Oh yes, thirty kilometres. Every town can fix its own, I believe, and it’s as low as six kilometres in some, but we needn’t bother about that. There are no bobbies on the roads here, with stop-watches.”
“But there’s a penalty, I suppose?”
“No doubt, but I don’t believe they prosecute unless you do some damage. Far more sensible than our ridiculous regulations.”
“Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir,” said Maurice.
“What’s that mean?”
“Your ignorance is deplorable. Haven’t you heard that prevention is better than cure?”
“That’s all rot: you don’t have all your teeth pulled to prevent toothache. I wonder the French have such a proverb. It’s our confounded British caution that let them get ahead of us in motoring and aviation. And look here, Maurice, don’t for goodness’ sake talk French to me. Keep it for emergencies. I can’t stand it.”
At Sens they waited only to purchase a spare tyre and to swallow a plate of soup at the Buffet. Then they set off again, intending to get a substantial déjeuner at Dijon. Both were rather sleepy, and as the temperature increased Maurice began to doze. George took advantage of this to spin along at a much higher speed than before. The road was so good, running almost all the way through a valley, that the gyro-car travelled with as little vibration, noise and dust as a motor-car of the best make going at half its speed.