The vintage had hardly begun. We had to drive for some distance before we saw the first group of _vendangeurs_, standing waist-deep in the vines, snipping off the bunches and putting them into square wooden baskets, eating grapes by handfuls, and talking in a penetrating, incessant gabble that was as strident on the quiet vineyard slope as were the dazzling white sun-bonnets and kerchiefs and blue blouses in the toneless expanse of green. The Treasure pulled up, informing us that here was a suitable subject for photography, and we docilely got the Kodak into position. The vintagers turned as one man to stare at us, and we tried to isolate some half-dozen in the little focussing mirror, while the Treasure leaped from his box, and, circulating among the crowd, explained to them his position of proprietor of the entertainment with a sense of its humour that was only kept within bounds by the still stronger sense of self-importance. My cousin balanced the Kodak on her arm with all care, and said, ‘_Maintenant très tranquille, s’il vous plaît!_’ to the mirrored half-dozen, who with one accord shrieked with delight, put their arms round each other, did their hair, and otherwise prepared themselves for the ordeal. ‘How fortunate it is that they don’t object to being photographed!’ said my cousin. ‘Now, you pull the bobbin--I mean the button--and I will press the other thing.’ There followed a disintegrating click from the heart of the Kodak. ‘The photograph is taken,’ said my cousin, not as confidently as could have been wished. ‘What _did_ the book say we were to do next?’ ‘Put a penny in the slot,’ I suggested. ‘Idiot!’ replied my cousin, searching in my sketching wallet on the earthquake principle--that is, to go at once to the lowest depths, and then to burst upwards and outwards through all resisting elements. ‘_Here_ is the book! It says we are now to turn this handle and replace the cap.’ The handle was turned, and it was then discovered that the cap was irretrievably lost. It was not on the floor of the wagonette, it was not in our pockets, it was not in the hood of my cousin’s cloak, or in her hand, or anywhere that it might reasonably have been. We said that we would hold a hat over the thing instead, and on going to the front for this purpose I became aware that the black cap was nestling in its usual place in front of the lens. It was one of the bitterest points of the incident that at this moment the group at whom the Kodak’s sightless eye had been directed, advanced upon us to see results, doubtless expecting that each of its six members would receive on the spot a picture on glass with a brass frame.