“All right,” said the young lady.  “But have a nap, anyway!” And sitting down in a low chair, she opened her book and lit a cigarette.

Mr. Lavender remained silent, watching her with the eyes of an acolyte, and wondering whether he was in his senses to have alighted on so rare a fortune.  Nor was it long before he fell into a hypnotic doze.

How long Mr. Lavender had been asleep he could not of course tell before he dreamed that he was caught in a net, the meshes of which were formed of the cries of newspaper boys announcing atrocities by land and sea.  He awoke looking into the eyes of Aurora, who, to still his struggles, had taken hold of his ankles.

“My goodness!  You are thin!” were the first words he heard.  “No wonder you’re lightheaded.”

Mr. Lavender, whose returning chivalry struggled with unconscious delight, murmured with difficulty: 

“Let me go, let me go; it is too heavenly!

“Well, have you finished kicking?” asked the young lady.

“Yes,” returned Mr. Lavender in a fainting voice——­“alas!”

The young lady let go of his ankles, and, aiding him to rise from the hammock, said:  “I know what’s the matter with you now—­you’re starving yourself.  You ought to be kept on your back for three months at least, and fed on butter.”

Mr. Lavender, soothing the feelings of Blink, who, at his struggles, had begun to pant deeply, answered with watering lips: 

“Everyone in these days must do twice as much as he ought, and I eat half, for only in this way can we compass the defeat of our common enemies.”  The young lady’s answer, which sounded like “Bosh!” was lost in Mr. Lavender’s admiration of her magnificent proportions as she bent to pick up her yellow book.

“Aurora,” he said, “I know not what secret you share with the goddesses; suffer me to go in and give thanks for this hour spent in your company.”

And he was about to recross the privet hedge when she caught him by the coat-tag, saying: 

“No, Don Pickwixote, you must dine with us.  I want you to meet my father.  Come along!” And, linking her arm in his, she led him towards her castle.  Mr. Lavender, who had indeed no, option but to obey, such was the vigour of her arm, went with a sense of joy not unmingled with consternation lest the personage she spoke of should have viewed him in the recent extravagance of his dreaming moments.

“I don’t believe,” said the young lady, gazing down at him, “that you weigh an ounce more than seven stone.  It’s appalling!

“Not,” returned Mr. Lavender, “by physical weight and force shall we win this war, for it is at bottom a question of morale.  Right is, ever victorious in the end, and though we have infinitely greater material resources than our foes, we should still triumph were we reduced to the last ounce, because of the inherent nobility of our cause.”

“You’ll be reduced to the last ounce if we don’t feed, you up somehow,” said the young lady.