When the little red auto finally stood on the tarmac at Paris,  I felt like laughing aloud.The fact of being on French soil, of being at last abroad, was delight enough.Since I had a habit of examining my impulses,I suspected that my elation might be partly the result of fatigue, a kind of intoxication of exhaustion.I had driven the little car five hundred miles, mostly through the night, in order to reach the south coast and the airport, and I knew, it was foolish.On the long trip through England I had even put my foot down and watched the speedometer needle flickering round seventy.I was in love with the little car, absolutely besotted.I would cheerfully have driven nonstop to China.The sun was higher in the sky than it ever rose at home, and this surprised and delighted me.I had never imagined five hundred mer miles of latitude could make such a difference.