But to return to Mrs. Barfleur and her daughter and Barfleur’s children and Barfleur ambling across the sunny English landscape this Christmas morning. It was a fine thing to see the green patina of the trees, and richer green grass growing lush and thick all winter long, and to see the roofs of little towns like Bridgely Level,--for we were walking on high ground,--and the silvery windings of the Thames in the valley below, whence we had just come. I think I established the metaphysical basis of life quite ably,--for myself,--and urged Mrs. Barfleur to take up Christian Science. I assailed the wisdom of maintaining by state funds the Established Church largely, I think, to irritate Barfleur, and protested that the chapel people had a great deal of wisdom on their side. As we drew near Bridgely Level and Barfleur’s country place it occurred to me that Gerard Barfleur had gone to find out if he really knew the lady of the donkey, and I was all anxiety to find out. Barfleur himself was perking up considerably, and it was agreed that first we would have an early afternoon feast, all the Christmas dainties of the day, and then, if Gerard really knew the lady, we were to visit her and then return to the house, where, I now learned, there was to be a Santa Claus. He was to arrive via the courtesy of Gerard Barfleur who was to impersonate him, and on that account, Barfleur announced, we might have to cut any impending visit to our lady short in order not to disappoint the children, but visit we would. Knowing Gerard Barfleur to be a good actor and intensely fond of children,--Barfleur’s especially,--I anticipated some pleasure here. But I will be honest, the great event of the day was our lady of the donkey, her white furs, and whether she was really as striking as I had imagined. I was afraid Gerard would return to report that either, (A)--he did not know her, or (B)--that she was not so fascinating as I thought. In either case my anticipated pleasure would come to the ground with a crash. We entered, shall I say, with beating hearts. Gerard had returned. With Sir Scorp and T. McT. he was now toasting his English legs in front of the fire, and discoursing upon some vanity of the day. At sight of the children he began his customary badinage but I would have none of it. Barfleur fixed him with a monitory eye. “Well,” he said, putting the burden of the inquiry on me. “Our friend here has been quite restless during the services this morning. What did you find out?” “Yes,” chimed in Mrs. Barfleur who had been informed as to this romantic encounter, “for goodness’ sake tell us. We are all dying to know.” “Yes, tell them,” sarcastically interpolated Lord Scorp. “There will be no peace, believe me, until you do.”