The Princess Passes | Page 7

would be a case of the pot calling the kettle black. Instead, I
smiled hypocritically as we "took a look" at the car before lending it
our lives.
"I hope the brute isn't vicious; doesn't blow up or explode, or shed its
safety valve, or anything," I remarked with a facetiousness which in the
circumstances did me credit.
Gotteland answered with the pitying air of the professional for the
amateur. "The one thing an automobile can't do, sir, is to blow up."
I was glad to hear this, in spite of the strong coffee lately swallowed,
but on the other hand there were doubtless a great many other equally
disagreeable things which it could do. Of course, if it were satisfied
with merely killing me, neatly and thoroughly, I still felt that I should
not mind; indeed, would be rather grateful than otherwise. But there
were objections, even for a jilted lover, to being smeared along the
ground, and picked up, perhaps, without a nose, or the proper
complement of legs, or vertebræ.
"Anyhow, the beast has a certain meretricious beauty," I admitted.
"Those red cushions and all that bright metal work give an effect of
luxury."
Gotteland revenged his idol with another smile. "Amateurs do notice
such things, sir," said he. "Professionals don't care much about the body;
it's the motor that interests them." He lifted a sort of lattice which
muzzled the dragon's mouth, disclosing some bulbous cylinders and a
tangle of pipes and wires. "It's the dernier cri. That engine will work as
long as there's a drop of essence in the carburetter, and will carry you at
forty miles an hour, without feeling a hill which would set many cars

groaning and puffing. It will do the work of twenty horses, and
more----"
"Yet I shouldn't be really surprised if one horse had to tow it some
day," I murmured more to myself than to him, but Molly heard me,
through her mushroom.
"You'll soon apologise to Mercédès for your doubts of her, for motors
are their own missionaries," she said, her eyes laughing through a
triangular talc window. "You will have learned to love her before you
know what has happened, just as you would the real Mercédès, if you
could see her."
Curious, I thought, that Molly, knowing my state of mind, should be
constantly weaving into our conversation some allusion to the
namesake and giver of her car. I had never in my life been less
interested in the subject of extraneous girls, and with all Molly's tact, it
seemed strange that she should not recognise this. However, she did not
appear to expect an answer, and we were soon settled in the car, Molly,
as I have said, looking like a graceful fungus growth, Jack and I like
haggard goblins.
Molly was to drive, and Jack insisted that I should sit in one of the two
absurdly comfortable armchair arrangements in front. The chauffeur
was presently to curl like a tendril round a little crimson toadstool at
our feet, and Jack took the tonneau in lonely state. This was, no doubt,
an act of fine self-abnegation on his part, nevertheless I could have
envied him his safe retirement, from my place of honour, with no noble
horses in front to save Molly and me from swift destruction.
Physically, we were very snug, however. The luggage was fitted into
spaces especially made for it; long baskets on the mudguards at the side
were stowed with maps and guide-books for the tour, and (as Molly
remarked in the language of her childhood) a "few nice little 'eaties' to
make us independent on the way."
There was also a sort of glorified tea basket, containing, Molly said, a
chafing-dish, without which no self-respecting American woman ever

travelled, and by whose aid wonderful dishes could be turned out at
five minutes' notice in a shipwreck, on a desert island, or while a tyre
was being mended.
As I mentally finished my last will and testament, Gotteland gave a
short twist to the dragon's tail, which happened to be in front. Instantly
a heart began to throb, throb. The chauffeur sprang to his toadstool.
Molly moved a lever which said "R-r-r-tch," pressed one of her small
but determined American feet on something, and the car gave a kind of
a smooth, gliding leap forward, as if sent spinning from an unseen
giant's hand.
Though it was but just after nine, the early omnibus had gathered its
tribute of toiling or shopping worms, and was too prevalent in Park
Lane for my peace of mind. There were also enormous drays, which
looked, as our frail bark passed under their bows, like huge Atlantic
liners. The hansoms were fierce black sharks skimming viciously round
us, and there were other monsters whose