"I say," she said suddenly, "don't let's go to the Château. I don't want to see the rotten place. Let's go for a drive instead--somewhere where you can let her out. And on the way back you can take me to get some gloves." "Susan," said I, "there's nothing doing. I know a drive in a high-powered car sounds a good deal more _chic_ than being shown round a Château, but you can't have everything. Orders is orders. Besides, I've lost my dog, and I want to get a move on. But for that, you should have done the Château and had your drive into the bargain. As it is...." Susan is a good girl. The moment she heard of my trouble, she was out of the car and haling me up to the Château as if there was a mob at our heels.... I was not in the mood for sightseeing, but my annoyance went down before the tapestries as wheat before the storm. Standing before those aged exquisites--those glorious embodiments of patience infinite, imagination high, and matchless craftsmanship, I forgot everything. The style of them was superb. They had quality. About them was nothing mean. They were so rich, so mellow, so delicate. There was a softness to the lovely tones no brush could ever compass. Miracles of detail, marvels of stately effect, the panels were breathing the spirit of their age. Looking upon them, I stepped into another world. I heard the shouts of the huntsmen and the laughter of the handmaidens, I smelled the sweat of the chargers and the sweet scent of the grapes, I felt the cool touch of the shade upon my cheeks. Always the shouts were distant, the scent faint, the laughter low. I wandered up faery glades, loitered in lazy markets, listened to the music of fountains, sat before ample boards, bowed over lily-white hands.... Here, then, was magic. Things other than silk went to the weaving of so potent a spell. The laborious needle put in the dainty threads: the hearts of those that plied it put in most precious memories--treasures of love and laughter ... the swift brush of lips ... the echo of a call in the forest ... a patch of sunlight upon the slope of a hill ... such stuff, indeed, as dreams are made on.... And there is the bare truth, gentlemen, just as I have stumbled upon it. The tapestries of Pau are dreams--which you may go and share any day except Sundays. We had almost finished our tour of the apartments, and were standing in the Bedroom of Jeanne d'Albret, staring at a beautiful Gobelin, when I heard the "flop" of something alighting upon the floor. With one consent, the keeper, Susan, and I swung on our heels. Advancing stiffly towards us and wagging his scrap of a tail was a small grey-brown dog. His coat was plastered with filth, upon one of his ears was a blotch of dried blood, his muzzle and paws might have been steeped in liquid soot. He stank abominably. I put up a hand to my head. "Nobby?" I cried, peering. And then again, "_Nobby?_"