There were things enough still to do to occupy the rest of the day--the grease, with which the brass work had been smeared to protect it _en route_, removed, the car cleaned and polished, and the batteries filled with distilled water, which could be obtained only from a "chemist," and all valves and bolts tested. Then there were last purchases to be made, to insure comfort in a climate in which, even in summer, the American shivers like a Mexican hairless dog! So it was not till the next afternoon that, the chauffeur still driving, we started on our great adventure. VI THE GREAT NORTH ROAD I had supposed we should go north at once, instead of which the driver headed west through Regent Park, thus avoiding the narrow and crowded thoroughfares of East London, which stretch far to the north. Then, by by-ways which a stranger could never have found, we came to Hatfield, where I had planned to spend the night, and there the chauffeur left me. I confess that when I parted with him I felt as I have heard the sick say they felt when the nurse departed--both weak and lonely! The inn at Hatfield is called the "Purple Cow," or by the name of some other zoological curiosity, but was comfortable enough except that its proximity to the tracks of the Great Northern Railway makes it as conducive to sleep as a room on the "L" at home! There is no garage connected with the inn of uncertain name, but there are vast stables, now, alas, well-nigh empty. The ancient ostler looks with no kindly eye on motors, but he was, I think, more favorably disposed toward me when I showed an interest in his tales of former days, when, so he said, as many as a hundred horses had found bed and fodder at one time under his care. This, of course, was in the good old coaching days, which he could remember as a boy, before railroads had changed the face of England. Indeed this continued, he said, for a long time after that, while gentlemen still travelled in their carriages. But the motor-car had given the _coup de grace_, and in his mind's eye the old man could now see "Ichabod" inscribed across the long, low front of the building which had once echoed to the songs of postboys and the neighing of many steeds. So, when he declined to wash the car, saying he "knew nothing of such things," I could not find it in my heart either to protest or to lessen his tip when I departed. Rather I felt the same sort of sympathy with him which I, a stanch Protestant, felt when I saw in France or Italy, old monks wandering through the aisles of some deserted abbey. From both the glory had departed, and utility can never have the charm of beauty.