Madame herself came forth to meet us, with a note in her fat hand, and a manner in which some slight admixture of interest, almost of respect, was discernible. We read the note. It was even worse than we had expected; it was a request couched in admirable English that we would be ready to meet the writer at eleven, and he would then give himself the pleasure of conducting us round the vineyards of the neighbourhood, and would finally have the honour of escorting us to his own _château_, where, he hoped, we would dine. The large commercial face of the hall clock showed that we had just one quarter of an hour before this flight into French society in which to eliminate the traces of an experience that would probably have horrified our host beyond recovery, to cast out the accent that we had acquired with such fatal facility from Suzanne and M. Blossier, and to scour through the all-sufficing pages of Bellows’ Dictionary for phrases that should lubricate our efforts at high-class conversation. It was not pleasant, either in prospect or accomplishment, but we did it. We were even sitting in the _salon_ as ladies should, putting on tight gloves, when a landau and pair drove to the door, and we were told by the sympathetically excited Louis that a gentleman wished to see us. In another five minutes we were bowling through Pauillac, with parasols up, conversing in free, untrammelled English with the excessively kind and unselfish person who had given a large slice of valuable time to the toil of taking two ignoramuses to see the innermost secrets and perfections of wine-making. Our host told us, in his well-chosen English, that had here and there the pressure and the staccato that an Anglo-Saxon tongue may weary itself in striving to imitate, that we were to partake of _déjeuner_ at a rival Pauillac hotel before going any farther. We did partake. From oysters, served with hot sausages, to black coffee and fruit, we went hand in hand with the _menu_, and when we rose to go we felt serene and equal to the occasion. [Illustration: ONLOOKERS OF THE TRIUMPHAL DEPARTURE FROM PAUILLAC.] Again we bowled smoothly along the Promenade de la Marine--a spectacle much enjoyed by the Pauillac _monde_, and, let us hope, imposing in the eyes of Madame and of her _salle-à-manger_, now crowded for _déjeuner_. We were driven into the country, in a direction opposite, we were thankful to observe, to that taken the day before by M. Blossier. Heavens! what would be the consternation of our present host if we were to chance upon one of the _cuviers_ or vintage kitchens of yesterday, and a troop of acquaintances was to burst therefrom, demanding copies of their photographs with a terrible intimacy--they might even slap us on the back!--the contingency did not bear thinking of.