We were on our way to Paris after a miraculous escape of the Channel. So calm it was that we had almost held our breaths in our anxiety lest the wind should rise before we got over. Dieppe lay behind us, and momma at the window declared that she could hardly believe she was looking out at Normandy. Momma at the window was enjoying herself immensely in the midst of Liberty silk travelling cushions, supported by her smelling-bottle, and engaged apparently in the realisation of long-cherished dreams.
"There they are in a row!" she exclaimed. "How lovely to see them standing up in that stiff, unnatural way just as they do in the pictures."
Poppa and I rushed raptly to the window, but discovered nothing remarkable.
"To see what, Augusta?" demanded he.
"The Normandy poplars, love. Aren't you awfully disappointed in them? I am. So wooden!"
Momma was enjoying herself.
Poppa said he didn't know that he had been relying much on the poplar feature of the scenery, and returned to his weary search for American telegrams in a London daily paper.
"Dear me," momma ejaculated, "I never supposed I should see them doing it! And right along the line of the railway, too!"