"I said the road was tricky," said Adèle, "but I hardly dared to hope they'd make such a bad mistake." We sailed off the bridge and on to a beautiful road. "Ah, this is more like it. I don't know where Jonah's going, _but this is the way to Pau_.... And now I think it'll be safe to have the lights on. You might look behind first to see if they're coming. You see, if they'd seen us go by, the game would have been up. As it is..." * * * * * At half-past seven that evening we drove into Pau. Arrived at our villa, we put the car away and hurried indoors. It was almost eight o'clock when Ping discharged his passengers upon the front steps. In silence and from the landing we watched them enter the hall. When they were all inside, I released Nobby. CHAPTER III HOW A GOLDEN CALF WAS SET UP, AND NOBBY SHOWED HIMSELF A TRUE PROPHET Five fat weeks had rolled by since Adèle had eased Jonah of sixty pounds, and the Antoinette ring we had given her to commemorate the feat was now for the first time in danger of suffering an eclipse. In a word, a new star had arisen. "I dreamed about it," said Daphne. "I knew I should." I knitted my brows. "I wish," said I, "I could share your enthusiasm." "Ah, but you haven't seen it." "I know, but I don't even want to. If you'd come back raving about a piece of furniture or a jewel or a picture, I should have been interested. But a shawl... A shawl leaves me cold." "I agree," said Jonah. "I've learned to appear attentive to the description of a frock. I keep a special indulgent smile for the incoherence inspired by a hat. But when you pipe to me the praises of a shawl--well, I'm unable to dance." "Wait till you see it," said Adèle. "Besides, there were some lovely rugs." "That's better," said I. "I like a good rug." "Well, these were glorious," said Jill. "They had the most lovely sheen. But, of course, the shawl..." "If anyone," said Jonah, "says that ugly word again, I shall scream." It was half-past nine of a very beautiful morning, and we were breakfasting. The last two days had been wet. In the night, however, the clouds had disappeared, leaving the great sky flawless, an atmosphere so rare as tempted shy Distance to approach, and the mountains in all the powdered glory of their maiden snow. Seventy miles of magic--that is what Pau stares at. For the Pyrenees, viewed from this royal box, are purely magical. They do not rise so high--eleven thousand feet, as mountains go, is nothing wonderful. There is no might nor majesty about them--distant some thirty odd miles. They are just an exquisite wall, well and truly laid, and carved with that careless cunning of the great Artificer into the likeness of some screen in Heaven.