All Thursday and Friday I expected at any moment to receive an intimation that, owing to unforseen circumstances (which might not be explained) the Countess and her party were unable to carry out the arrangement they had entered into with us. But Thursday passed, and nothing happened. Friday wore on towards evening, and the constant strain upon my nerves had made me irritable. Terry, who was calmly getting ready for the start as if there were no cause for uncertainty, chaffed me on my state of mind, and I rounded upon him viciously, for was not all my scheming for his sake? I was in the act of pointing out several of his most prominent defects, and shedding cigarette ashes into his suit-case as he packed, when Felicite appeared with a letter. "It's from her!" I gasped. "And--she's got her coronet. It's on the envelope, as large as life." "Which means that she's ready," said the future chauffeur, examining a suit of overalls. "Don't be so cocksure," said I, opening the letter. "Hum--ha--well, yes, it does seem to be all right, if you can ever judge a woman's intentions by what she says. She wants to know whether the arrangement stands, that we're to call for them at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, and whether we're to go rain or shine. I'll scratch off a line in answer, and say yes--yes--yes, to everything." I did so with a trembling hand, and then gave myself up to the weakness of reaction. Upon Felicite fell the task of doing my packing, which consisted in cramming a suit of flannels, my evening things, and all the linen it would hold without bursting asunder, into a large, fitted suit-case. Terry had a suit-case too, five times better than mine (Irishmen in debt always do have things superior to those of every one else); we had motor-coats, and enough guide-books and road-maps to stock a small library; and when these were collected we were ready for the Great Adventure.