The court house had thrown off her frowning, justice-like look, and reared her dome in quite a gay and festive manner, seemingly proud of her green draperies and patriotic ensigns.

So if you ask Lasseter about car love, you get an impromptu prose poem. Car love, he says, is the sound of a throaty V-8 rumbling and revving, the acceleration throwing you back in the seat—especially when you get on a beautiful, winding road and the light's dappling through the trees.

We signalled to the nearest dancer, who came twirlingly over to us.

At this our first dinner at the Government House a very laughable incident occurred.