“Philistines!” I said indignantly.  “Well, I’m—­”

“Agagged,” suggested Archie.  “Oh no, he was an Amalekite.”

“You’ve lived in the same country as this famous old Norman church for years and years and years, and you care so little about it that you’ve never been to see it and aren’t sure whether it was Katharine of Aragon or Alice-for-short who was buried here, and now that you have come across it by accident you want to drive up to it in a brand-new 1910 motor-car, with Simpson in his 1910 gent.’s fancy vest knocking out the ashes of his pipe against the lych-gate as he goes in. ...  And that’s what it is to be one of the elect!”

“Little Chagford’s noted back-chat comedians,” commented Archie.  “Your turn, Dahlia.”

“There was once a prince who was walking in a forest near his castle one day—­that’s how all the nice stories begin—­and he suddenly came across a beautiful maiden, and he said to himself, ’I’ve lived here for years and years and years, and I’ve never seen her before, and I’m not sure whether her name is Katharine or Alice, or where her uncle was buried, and I’ve got a new surcoat on which doesn’t match her wimple at all, so let’s leave her and go home to lunch....’  And that’s what it is to be one of the elect!”

“Don’t go on too long,” said Archie.  “There are the performing seals to come after you.”

I jumped out of the car and joined her in the road.

“Dahlia, I apologize,” I said.  “You are quite right.  We will visit this little church together, and see who was buried there.”

Myra looked up from the book she had been studying, Jovial Jaunts Round Jibmouth.

“There isn’t a church at Little Chagford,” she said.  “At least there wasn’t two years ago, when this book was published.  So that looks as though it can’t be very early Norman.”

“Then let’s go on,” said Archie, after a deep silence.

We found a most delightful little spot (which wasn’t famous for anything) for lunch, and had the baskets out of the car in no time.

“Now, are you going to help get things ready,” asked Myra, “or are you going to take advantage of your sex and watch Dahlia and me do all the work?”

“I thought women always liked to keep the food jobs for themselves,” I said.  “I know I’m never allowed in the kitchen at home.  Besides, I’ve got more important work to do—­I’m going to make the fire.”

“What fire?”

“You can’t really lead the simple life and feel at home with Nature until you have laid a fire of twigs and branches, rubbed two sticks together to procure a flame, and placed in the ashes the pemmican or whatever it is that falls to your rifle.”

“Well, I did go out to look for pemmican this morning, but there were none rising.”

“Then I shall have my ham sandwich hot.”

“Bread, butter, cheese, eggs, sandwiches, fruit,” catalogued Dahlia, as she took them out; “what else do you want?”