Cynthia hesitated. She had scarcely recovered from the excitement of the racing and was not choosing her words quite happily. Mrs. Devar, still sugary, ended the sentence.

"In fact, it was he who recommended me to Mr. Vanrenen as your chaperon. Yes, my dear, Monsieur Marigny and I are old friends. He and my son are inseparable when Captain Devar is in Paris. Well, as I was saying, the Count offered to take me up in his balloon, L'Etoile, and I was ready to go, but the weather became stormy and an ascent from the Velo was impossible, or highly dangerous, at any rate."

Mrs. Devar cultivated the high-pitched voice that she regarded as the hall-mark of good breeding, and, in that silent rush downhill, Medenham could not avoid hearing each syllable. It was eminently pleasing to listen to Cynthia's praise of his car, and he was wroth with the other woman for wrenching the girl's thoughts away so promptly from a topic dear to his heart. Therein he erred, for the gods were being kind to him. Little recking how valuable was the information he had just been given, he slackened speed somewhat, and leaned back in the seat.

"We are nearing Reigate now," he remarked with half-turned head. "The town begins on the other side of that tunnel. Which inn do you wish to stop at for tea?"

"It seems to me that I have barely ended lunch," said Cynthia. "Shall we cut out your old-world Reigate inn, Mrs. Devar, and take tea at Crawley or Handcross?"

"By all means. How well you know the names of the towns and villages. Yet you have never before visited this part of England."

"We Americans are nothing if not thorough," answered the girl. "I would not be happy if I failed to look up our route on the map. More than that, I note the name of each river we cross and try to identify every range of hills. You must test me and count my mistakes."

Mrs. Devar spread her hands in a gesture copied from her French acquaintances.

"My dear, I am the most ignorant person geographically. I remember how that delightful Count Edouard laughed when I asked him if the Loire joined the Seine above or below Paris. It seems that I was thinking of the Oise all the time. The Marchioness of Belfort told me of my error afterwards."

Cynthia laughed merrily, but made no reply.Medenham laughed. In its way, the compliment was graceful and well meant, but the utter absurdity of his 

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