placidly heedless of the fact that the Treasure, with his moustache twisted up to his eyes, from the very extremity of gallantry, was posed beside her, with his fat arm round her neck. Thus they were photographed, and as the words ‘_C’est fait_’ were uttered, the Treasure’s hat was raised with a flourish, and a ponderous kiss was deposited upon the cheek of beauty. There was a roar of delight from the luncheon party under the penthouse; even the photographers so far forgot themselves as to titter sympathetically, and as our _cocher_ whipped up his horse, and swung out of the yard on two wheels, he turned to us and winked with an intimacy that made my cousin take out her most unbecoming pair of spectacles and put them on, in order to sustain the character of the expedition. After this the events of the day became blended into a monotony of hot green vineyards, with pink and white houses on the hazy horizon; narrow roads, without a fence between their warm yellow gravel and the yellow gravel in which the vines grow; gangs of [Illustration: FAWN-COLOURED OXEN.] vintagers stooping among the plants; fawn-coloured oxen pacing at ease with their loads; the clack and twang of Bordelais tongues; and, most prominent of all ingredients, the heat and the Kodak. Every friend of the _cocher_ was found and photographed, the sketch-book was utilised for those who insisted on an immediate result, and, as the afternoon sun began to drop towards the western uplands, we hoped that we might, in the fulness of time, be permitted to go home. But the Treasure had yet another friend, one who lived still farther away from Pauillac, and it was not till we had driven for half an hour that we saw in front of us the now familiar _chai_, with its arched opening into the _cuvier_, and its magenta-legged proprietor standing inside in the juice, shovel in hand. It was becoming too late in the day for the Kodak, and the _cocher_ desired that a sketch should be made of this most particular friend, and also of the friend’s wife, whom, in the twinkling of an eye, he had fetched from her house and placed on the edge of the _pressoir_ in utter absurdity and incongruity. But the artist was too completely subjugated to remonstrate; even when the sketch-book was snatched from her by the _cocher_ and deposited in the vinous fingers of the grape treader with long and loud explanation of every page, she merely sank back in voiceless despair.