She used to study maps, and walk with one under her arm out of which she read aloud the names of the places we were supposed to be at; and just as we had settled down to believe it we would come to some flatly contradictory signpost which talked of quite different places, places we had been told were remote and in an altogether different direction. “It doesn’t matter,” she would say, with a smile in which I, at least, never joined, for I have my own opinions of petticoat government--“the great thing is to go on.” So we went on; and it was she who made us suddenly turn off southward after Frant, leaving a fairly comfortable highroad for the vicissitudes of narrow and hilly lanes. “Lanes,” said she, “are infinitely prettier.” I dare say. They are also generally hillier, and so narrow that once a caravan is in one on it has to go whatever happens, trusting to luck not to meet anything else on wheels till it reaches, after many anxieties, the haven of another highroad. This lane ran deep between towering hedges and did not leave off again for five miles, and none of you would believe how long it took us to do those five miles because none of you know--how should you?--what the getting of caravans up hills by means of tracing is. We had, thanks to Mrs. Menzies-Legh’s desire for the pretty (unsatisfied I am glad to say on that occasion, because the so-called sea-mist clung close round us like a wet gray cloak)--we had got into an almost mountainous lane. We were tracing the whole time, dragging each caravan up each hill in turn, leaving it solitary at the top and returning with all three horses for the next one left meanwhile at the bottom. I never saw such an endless succession of hills. If tracing does not teach a man patience what, I would like to know, will? At first, on finding my horse removed and harnessed on to the Ailsa, I thought I would get inside the Elsa and stretch myself on the yellow box and wait there quietly smoking till the horse came back again; but I found Edelgard inside, blocking it up and preparing to mend her stockings. This was unpleasant, for I had hardly spoken to her, and then only with the chilliest politeness, since her behaviour on the evening by the Medway; yet, determined to be master in my own (so to speak) house, I would have carried out my intention if Menzies-Legh’s voice, which I thought had gone up the hill, had not been heard quite close outside asking where I was. I warned my wife by means of a hasty enjoining finger to keep silence. Will it be believed that she looked at me, said “Why should you not help?” opened the window, and called out that I was there? “Come and give us a hand, Baron,” said Menzies-Legh from outside. “It’s a very stiff pull--we’ll have to push behind as well, and want what help we’ve got.” “Certainly,” said I, all apparent ready bustle; but I shot a very expressive brief glance at Edelgard as I went out. She, however, pretended to be absorbed in her sewing.