Then she began to laugh, and the sweetest thing about it was that she didn’t want to laugh a bit and blushed the most lovely pink, as she broke out again and again until the woods fairly rang.  And as I laughed too—­for really it was most absurd—­it was as good as a scene in a play.  And so, while she held Legree’s dog, whom the sound inflamed to frenzy, I popped off the crackers and dropped my cigar into Vesuvius.  I tell you he was worth four and eightpence, and the man was right when he said there wasn’t his match in London.  I doubt if there was his match anywhere for being plumb-full of red balls and green balls and blue balls and crimson stars and fizzlegigs and whole torrents of tiny crackers and chase-me-quicks, and when you about thought he was never going to stop he shot up a silver spray and a gold spray and wound up with a very considerable decent-sized bust.

“I must thank you for your good nature,” I said to the young lady.

“Are you a typical American?” she asked.  “Oh, so-so,” I returned.  “There are heaps like me in New York.”

“And do they all do this on the Fourth of July?” she asked.

“Every last one!” I said.

“Fancy!” she said.

“In America,” I said, “when a man has received one favour he is certain to make it the stepping-stone for another.  Won’t you permit me to walk across the park to Castle Fyles?”

“Castle Fyles?” she repeated, with a little note of curiosity in her girlish voice.  “Then don’t you know that this is Fyles Park?”

“Can’t say I did,” I returned.  “But I am delighted to hear it.”

“Why are you delighted to hear it?” she asked, making me feel more than ever like an escaped lunatic.

“This is the home of my ancestors,” I said, “and it makes me glad to think they amount to something—­own real estate—­and keep their venerable heads above water.”

“So this is the home of your ancestors,” she said.

“It’s holy ground to me,” I said.

“Fancy!” she exclaimed.

“At least I think it is,” I went on, “though we haven’t any proofs beyond the fact that Fyles has always been a family name with us back to the Colonial days.  I’m named Fyles myself—­Fyles ffrench—­ and we, like the Castle people—­have managed to retain our little f throughout the ages.”

She looked at me so incredulously that I handed her my card.

Mr. Fyles ffrench,

Knickerbocker Club.

She turned it over in her fingers, regarding me at the same time with flattering curiosity.

“How do you do, kinsman?” she said, holding out her hand.  “Welcome to old England!”

I took her little hand and pressed it.

“I am the daughter of the house,” she explained, “and I’m named Fyles too, though they usually call me Verna.”

“And the little f, of course,” I said.

“Just like yours,” she returned.  “There may be some capital F’s in the family, but we wouldn’t acknowledge them!”