“Fyles,” she said, with the ghost of a sigh, “this isn’t day-dreaming at all, and I’m going to give you another cup of tea and change the subject.”

“What would you prefer, then?” I asked.  “No!  No more chocolate cake, thank you.”

“Let’s have a fairy story all of our own,” she said.

“Well, you begin,” I said.

“Once upon a time,” she began, “there was a poor young man in New York—­an American, though of course he couldn’t help that—­and he came over to England and discovered the home of his ancestors, and he liked them, and they liked him—­ever so much, you know—­and he found that the old place was destined to pass to strangers, and so he worked and worked in a dark old office, and stayed up at night working some more, and never accepted any invitations or took a holiday except at week-ends to the family castle—­until finally he amassed an immense fortune.  Then he got into a fairy chariot, together with a bag of gold and the family lawyer, and ordered the coachman to drive him to Lord George Willoughby’s in Curzon Street.  Then they sent out in hot haste for Sir George’s son, an awfully fast young man in the Guards, and the family lawyer haggled and haggled, and Lord George hemmed and hawed, and the Guardsman’s eyes sparkled with greed at the sight of the bag of gold, and finally for two hundred thousand pounds (Papa says he often thinks he could pull it off for a hundred and ten thousand) the entail is broken and everybody signs his name to the papers and the poor young man buys the succession of Fyles and comes down here, regardless of expense, in a splendid gilt special train, and is received with open arms by his kinsmen at the castle.”

“The open arms appeal to me,” I said.

“He was nearly hugged to death,” said Verna, “for they were so pleased the old name was not to die out and be forgotten.  And then the poor young man married a ravishing beauty and had troops of sunny-haired children, and the daughter of the castle (who by this time was an old maid and quite plain, though everybody said she had a heart like hidden treasure) devoted herself to the little darlings and taught them music-lessons and manners and how to spell their names with a little f, and as a great treat would sometimes bring them up here and tell them how she had first met the poor young man in the ’diamond mornings of long ago’!”

“That’s a good fairy story,” I said, “but you are all out about the end!”

“You said you liked it,” she protested.

“Yes, where they hugged the poor young man,” I returned, “but after that, Verna, it went off the track altogether.”

“Perhaps you’ll put it back again,” she said.

“I want to correct all that about the daughter of the castle,” I said.  “She never became an old maid at all, for, of course, the poor young man loved her to distraction and married her right off, and they lived happily together ever afterwards!”