I began another “but,” which was scornfully disregarded by both Jack and Molly.  I might as well consent now, as later, they said, since they would simply refuse to leave Chambery without me, and the longer I took to see reason, the more essence would the motor be wasting.

Thus adjured, I allowed myself to be hustled off to my hotel by Jack, who insisted on accompanying me lest I should turn traitor on the way.  In ten minutes Gotteland would drive the car to the door of the France, and I was expected to be ready by that time.  My packing had been done before I went out, by the united efforts of a valet de chambre and myself; but now all had to be undone again; my motoring coat (unused for weeks and aged in appearance by as many years) dragged up from the lowest stratum with my goblin-goggles, and a few small things dashed into a weird travelling bag which a confused porter rushed out to buy at a neighbouring shop.  While I settled the hotel bill, Jack arranged to have my portmanteau expressed to Grenoble, and by a scramble our tasks were finished when the voice of the car called us to the door.

The whole incident had happened so quickly, that I had no time to realise the change in my circumstances, when, “sole, like a falling star,” the motor “shot through the pillared town” with me on board.

There had been a time when I shrank from the name of the car’s giver, believing that Molly thrust it too obviously into notice.  When “that dear girl Mercedes” had threatened to enter our conversations I had often kept her out by force; but now it seemed that I, not she, was the intruder, and in a far more material way.  This was, perhaps, poetical justice, but I did not grudge it, since it was evident that Molly no longer cherished the intention of dangling her friend the heiress before me like a brilliant fly over the nose of an impecunious trout.  On the contrary, she warned me off the premises.  We were to hurry down to Monte Carlo as quickly as possible, that the situation might not be overstrained.  Mercedes in the tonneau, I in the front seat, were to live and let live during the rapid journey, and this was well.

I dimly remembered that, in the first days of our journey in search of a mule, Molly had vaunted her friend’s beauty, but the silver-grey mushroom prevented me from verifying or disproving this statement.  The small, triangular talc window was greyly-opaque, or else there was a grey veil underneath; my one glance had not told me which, and I neither dared nor desired to steal another.

Jack supplied the blanks in our somewhat broken correspondence, by skimming over the details of their doings; how they had spent most of their time since our parting in Switzerland; how they had arrived at Aix-les-Bains the very morning we left for Mont Revard; and how they had motored to Chambery yesterday afternoon.

“Think of my being in the same town with you for more than twelve hours, and not knowing it!” I exclaimed.  “To borrow an expression of Mrs. Winston’s, I was jolly ‘low in my mind’ last night, and the very thought that you two were close by would have been cheering.”