“No,” said Mrs. Medallion. “It isn’t. And I wish you wouldn’t exaggerate. My father detested exaggeration. He said it was subversive of conversational dignity.” “Well, it’s very restful, any way. Look at those sheep.” “I refuse,” said Mrs. Medallion. “We’ve passed four flocks on the road since we left Pau, and I’m sick and tired of sheep. What is abundantly clear is that France is a very rich land. Why doesn’t she pay her debts?” “I can’t imagine,” said Miss Woolly. “I’ll tell you,” said Mrs. Medallion. “Because she and her creditors are friends. You can’t combine friendship with business. It’s an inviolable rule. Pull the check-string.” The landaulette proceeded silently and at a sober pace. Presently the road became a curling shelf, with, on the left, first, a miniature wall, and then a ten-foot drop into gay meadows. On the right, a rough and tumble of rock, with rags and tatters of greensward interspersed, climbed to the mountains. Except for an open car, drawn up by the miniature wall, and an approaching waggon, the road was empty. As luck would have it, the waggon was about to pass the car when the landaulette arrived. There not being room for three vehicles abreast, the landaulette had to wait. This she did quietly enough six paces away. The waggon went rumbling. . . . Then the bullocks saw Mrs. Medallion’s blue parasol and sought to leave the road. Their frantic owner strove to correct them with blows and howls. . . . Pipe in mouth, the fair-haired man who had been tightening a bolt beneath the grey car’s wing watched the scene with a smile. . . . Mrs. Medallion put up her lorgnettes. “Desire that man to come here,” she said. “He’s my nephew.” Miss Woolly descended and went up to Captain Rage. “Please will you come,” she said, “and speak to Mrs. Medallion?” Toby started violently, dropped his spanner and snatched his pipe from his mouth. Then, with a sickly smile, he took off his hat. . . . As the waggon swayed by— “How d’ye do?” said Mrs. Medallion, extending her hand. “Don’t you feel well?” “P-p-perfectly, thank you, Aunt Ira,” stammered the unfortunate Toby, touching her glove. “D’you feel all right? I mean . . . I—I do hope you’re well,” he added piously. After a long look— “My health,” said Mrs. Medallion, “leaves little to be desired.” She turned to her companion about to re-enter the car. “Miss Woolly, this is my nephew, Captain Rage. Captain Rage—Miss Woolly.” The two bowed. “Why are you here, Toby?” “Well, I’m—I’m really at Biarritz,” stammered Rage. “You know, taking—taking a sort of holiday there.” “Well, I’m really at Pau,” said his aunt, staring. “Taking a sort of rest. I don’t know what from, but the doctors advised the change. What’s your trouble? Nerves?” “Good Heavens, no, Aunt Ira.” He laughed uneasily. “I’m perfectly well. But I was so—so dumbfounded. You know. Er, er, astonished.” “‘Dumbfounded’ will do,” said his aunt. “I’m quite familiar with the word.”