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 auto, 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.