“Tell me,” I said, “of Mr. Bason.  He interests me, and I’ve never seen him.”

“Mr. Bason,” said Adele, “is short and fat and—­yes, I’m afraid he’s greasy.  He has bright yellow hair and a ridiculous moustache, which is brushed up on end on each side of his nostrils.  He has very watery pale blue eyes, and all the blood in his face seems to have gone to his nose.”

“Muscular rheumatism,” I suggested.

“I guess so.  Of course, he knows best, and I don’t pretend to say what men should wear, but white flannel suits aren’t becoming to every figure, are they?  Most of the rest of him was mauve—­shirt, socks and handkerchief.  Oh, and he had a tie on his pin.”

“But how lovely!”

“Yes, but you should have smelt the lilac.  He was just perfumed to death.  If he isn’t careful, one of these days he’ll get picked.”

“One of the old school, in fact.  Well, well....”  We swept round a corner, and I nodded ahead.  “See that ridge in front of us?  Well, that’s Fallow Hill.  The village lies close, just on the other side.”

“What are you going to do with the car?” said Adele.

“They’ll let me lock her up—­don’t be shocked—­at the brewery.  I know them there.”

“You’ll admit it sounds bad.”

“Yes, but it smells lovely.  You wait.  For that reason alone, I should vote against Prohibition.  The honest scent of brewing, stealing across the meadows on a summer eve, is one of the most inspiring things I know.”

“But what a man!” said Adele. “’Books in the running brooks, Virtue in vats, and good in everything.’  Nobby,” she added reproachfully, “why didn’t you tell me he was a poet?” The Sealyham put his head on one side, as if desiring her to repeat the question.  “Oh, you cute thing!” And, with that, my lady bent and kissed the terrier between the bright brown eyes.

I put the wheel over hard, and the car swerved violently.

“For Heaven’s sake!” cried Miss Feste.  “What are you doing?”

“It’s your fault,” said I.  “I’m only human.  Besides, he doesn’t deserve it.”

Adele flung me a dazzling smile, made as though she would say something, and then, apparently changing her mind, relapsed into a provoking silence....

A quarter of an hour later the Rolls had been safely bestowed at the brewery, and my companion and I were making our way amusedly past booths and tents and caravans, where chapmen, hucksters, drovers, cheapjacks, gipsies and bawling showmen wrangled and chaffered and cried their wares or entertainments, making with the crude music of the merry-go-rounds much the same good-humoured uproar which had been faithfully rendered at the village of Fallow Hill every September for the last five hundred years.

“Blessings on your sweet pretty face, my lady!” cried an old voice.

We turned to see a very old gipsy, seated a little apart upon a backless chair, nodding and smiling in our direction.