I stopped.  Aunt Elizabeth was looking away, as if endeavouring to create an impression of having nothing to do with me.  I am told by one who knows that hens cannot raise their eyebrows, not having any; but I am prepared to swear that at this moment Aunt Elizabeth raised hers.  I will go further.  She sniffed.

“Here you are,” said the man.  “Though it’s hard to say good-bye.”

He held out the hen to me, and at this point a hitch occurred.  He did his part, the letting go, all right.  It was in my department, the taking hold, that the thing was bungled.  Aunt Elizabeth slipped from my grasp like an eel, stood for a moment eyeing me satirically with her head on one side, then fled and entrenched herself in some bushes at the end of the lawn.

There are times when the most resolute man feels that he can battle no longer with fate; when everything seems against him and the only course is a dignified retreat.  But there is one thing essential to a dignified retreat.  You must know the way out.  It was the lack of that knowledge that kept me standing there, looking more foolish than anyone has ever looked since the world began.  I could not retire by way of the hedge.  If I could have leaped the hedge with a single debonair bound, that would have been satisfactory.  But the hedge was high, and I did not feel capable at the moment of achieving a debonair bound over a footstool.

The man saved the situation.  He seemed to possess that magnetic power over his fellows which marks the born leader.  Under his command we became an organised army.  The common object, the pursuit of the elusive Aunt Elizabeth, made us friends.  In the first minute of the proceedings the Irishman was addressing me as “me dear boy,” and the man, who had introduced himself as Mr. Chase—­a lieutenant, I learned later, in His Majesty’s Navy—­was shouting directions to me by name.  I have never assisted at any ceremony at which formality was so completely dispensed with.  The ice was not merely broken; it was shivered into a million fragments.

“Go in and drive her out, Garnet,” shouted Mr. Chase.  “In my direction if you can.  Look out on the left, Phyllis.”

Even in that disturbing moment I could not help noticing his use of the Christian name.  It seemed to me more than sinister.  I did not like the idea of dashing young lieutenants in the senior service calling a girl Phyllis whose eyes had haunted me since I had first seen them.

Nevertheless, I crawled into the bushes and administered to Aunt Elizabeth a prod in the lower ribs—­if hens have lower ribs.  The more I study hens, the more things they seem able to get along without—­ which abruptly disturbed her calm detachment.  She shot out at the spot where Mr. Chase was waiting with his coat off, and was promptly enveloped in that garment and captured.

“The essence of strategy,” observed Mr. Chase approvingly, “is surprise.  A neat piece of work!”