“But, Mr. Trelyon,” said Wenna, looking round, “hadn’t we better turn?  We shall be at Trevenna directly.”

“Yes, you are quite right,” said Master Harry:  “you will be at Trevenna directly, and you are likely to be there for some time.  For Mabyn and I have resolved to have luncheon there, and we are going down to Tintagel, and we shall most likely climb to King Arthur’s Castle.  Have you any objections?”

Wenna had none.  The drive through the cool and bright day had braced up her spirits.  She was glad to know that everything looked promising about this scheme of hers.  So she willingly surrendered herself to the holiday, and in due time they drove into the odd and remote little village and pulled up in front of the inn.

So soon as the hostler had come to the horses’ heads the young gentleman who had been driving jumped down and assisted his three companions to alight:  then he led the way into the inn.  In the doorway stood a stranger, probably a commercial traveler, who, with his hands in his pockets, his legs apart and a cigar in his mouth, had been visiting those three ladies with a very hearty stare as they got out of the carriage.  Moreover, when they came to the doorway he did not budge an inch nor did he take his cigar from his mouth; and so, as it had never been Mr. Trelyon’s fashion to sidle past any one, that young gentleman made straight for the middle of the passage, keeping his shoulders very square.  The consequence was a collision.  The imperturbable person with his hands in his pockets was sent staggering against the wall, while his cigar dropped on the stone.  “What the devil—!” he was beginning to say, when Trelyon got the three women past him and into the small parlor.  Then he went back:  “Did you wish to speak to me, sir?  No, you didn’t:  I perceive you are a prudent person.  Next time ladies pass you, you’d better take your cigar out of your mouth or somebody’ll destroy that two-pennyworth of tobacco for you.  Good-morning.”

Then he returned to the little parlor, to which a waitress had been summoned:  “Now, Jinny, pull yourself together and let’s have something nice for luncheon—­in an hour’s time, sharp.  You will, won’t you?  And how about that Sillery with the blue star—­not the stuff with the gold head that some abandoned ruffian in Plymouth brews in his back garden.  Well, can’t you speak?”

“Yes, sir,” said the bewildered maid.

“That’s a good thing—­a very good thing,” said he, putting the shawls together on a sofa.  “Don’t you forget how to speak until you get married.  And don’t let anybody come into this room.  And you can let my man have his dinner and a pint of beer.  Oh, I forgot:  I’m my own man this morning, so you needn’t go asking for him.  Now, will you remember all these things?”

“Yes, sir; but what would you like for luncheon?”

“My good girl, we should like a thousand things such as Tintagel never saw, but what you’ve got to do is to give us the nicest things you’ve got:  do you see?  I leave it entirely in your hands.  Come along, young people.”