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He had his own landau.I can se●e him now sitting behind the wheel with a ●big moustache.Colonel Scobie, M.


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    C.A Lancer he ▓was.My mother sat beside him, old man.Neve●r left his side, not even for road race▓s.She used to act as his mechanic.The newspap▓ers always had pictures of them at the▓ start, sitting up there in bee-kee●per’s veils — God knows why the pio●neers al

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    ways wore those huge veils.Dust, ▓I suppose.’ The veils had pro▓ved their undoing.Rounding a hairpin in th●e old London-Brighton road-race his father’s ve●il had been sucked into the front axle of th●e car they were driving.He had been dragge▓d into the road, whil

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    e his com●panion had careered on to smash▓ headlong into a tree.‘The only consola▓tion is that that is just how ●he would have liked to go out.They were l●eading by quarter of a mile.’ I have ●always been very fond of ludicrou▓s deaths and had great difficulty●

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in containing my laughter as Scobie de▓scribed this misadventure to▓ me with portentous rotation▓s of his glass eye.Yet as he talke●d and I

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listened to this, half my thoughts● were running upon a parallel track, busy abo●ut the new job I was to undertake

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  • , assess▓ing it

  • in terms of the f

  • reedom it offered▓ me.L

  • ater that night

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  • Justine was ▓to

  • meet me near Mont

  • aza — the great car pur

  • ●ring like a mo

Yearly

  • th in the palm-c

  • ooled dusk ●of th

  • e road.What would she sa

  • y to it She w●o

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