ABSTRACT
To chronicle correctly I should, however, preface this remark by the statement that my wife and I journeyed from the Louvre Hotel to Mole C in a taxi-cab, and in such comfort as coincides with the obsession of a chau eur ineradicably convinced that the Cannebière is a local Brooklands track and his motor an aspirant to record-breaking fame. However, except for the imprecations of a tramcar driver, the fury of a matron of France, whose diminutive o -spring I last saw seated — having evaded annihilation by a hair’s breadth — on the dusty road, and the rm belief of my wife (latterly shared by myself) that our Indian tour would end in European mud — or the Chāteau d’ If — we nally drew up without disaster face to face with a bewildered French cart-horse emerging from the dock gates, an insistent vendor of post cards, and the P. & O. steamship “Maloja.” Following the eternal law of embarkation disorder, we found the decks smothered with heated and agitated passengers seeking strayed luggage and their legitimate cabins. We have a large one on the promenade deck, on the port, or shady, side of the ship, a matter, o Marseilles, of little import, but o Mecca, when one is sti ed, peevish and surfeited by Red Sea vapours, of vast comfort and self-satisfaction.
