“Then I’d make an awful’ good try at it!” nodded Bellew.

“No,” said Small Porges, shaking his head, “shall I tell you what you ought to do?  Well then, you’d draw your two-edged sword, an’ dress your shield,—­like Gareth, the Kitchen Knave did,—­he was always dressing his shield, an’ so was Lancelot,—­an’ you’d fight all those dragons, an’ kill them, an’ cut their heads off.”

“And then what would happen?” enquired Bellew.

“Why then the lovely Princess would open the gate, an’ marry you of course, an’ live happy ever after, an’ all would be revelry an’ joy.”

“Ah!” sighed Bellew, “if she’d do that, I think I’d fight all the dragons that ever roared,—­and kill them too.  But supposing she—­er—­wouldn’t open the gate.”

“Why then,” said Small Porges, wrinkling his brow, “why then—­you’d have to storm the castle, of course, an’ break open the gate an’ run off with the Princess on your charger,—­if she was very beautiful, you know.”

“A most excellent idea, my Porges!  If I should happen to find myself in like circumstances, I’ll surely take your advice.”

Now, as he spoke, Bellew glanced at Anthea, and she at him.  And straightway she blushed, and then she laughed, and then she blushed again, and, still blushing, rose to her feet, and turned to find Mr. Cassilis within a yard of them.

“Ah, Miss Anthea,” said he, lifting his hat, “I sent Georgy to find you, but it seems he forgot to mention that I was waiting.”

“I’m awful’ sorry, Mr. Cassilis,—­but Uncle Porges was telling us ’bout dragons, you know,” Small Porges hastened to explain.

“Dragons!” repeated Mr. Cassilis, with his supercilious smile, “ah, indeed! dragons should be interesting, especially in such a very quiet, shady nook as this,—­quite an idyllic place for story-telling, it’s a positive shame to disturb you,” and his sharp, white teeth gleamed beneath his moustache, as he spoke, and he tapped his riding-boot lightly with his hunting-crop as he fronted Bellew, who had risen, and stood bare-armed, leaning upon his pitch-fork.  And, as in their first meeting, there was a mute antagonism in their look.

“Let me introduce you to each other,” said Anthea, conscious of this attitude,—­“Mr. Cassilis, of Brampton Court,—­Mr. Bellew!”

“Of nowhere in particular, sir!” added Bellew.

“And pray,” said Mr. Cassilis perfunctorily as they strolled on across the meadow, “how do you like Dapplemere, Mr. Bellew?”

“Immensely, sir,—­beyond all expression!”

“Yes, it is considered rather pretty, I believe.”

“Lovely, sir!” nodded Bellew, “though it is not so much the beauty of the place itself, that appeals to me so much as what it—­contains.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Mr. Cassilis, with a sudden, sharp glance, “to what do you refer?”

“Goose-berries, sir!”

“I—­ah—­beg your pardon?”

“Sir,” said Bellew gravely, “all my life I have fostered a secret passion for goose-berries—­raw, or cooked,—­in pie, pudding or jam, they are equally alluring.  Unhappily the American goose-berry is but a hollow mockery, at best—­”