“It’s terribly difficult to get hold of,” she said. “You’re quite sure I don’t attract you?” “Absolutely,” said Rage. “If you were to go up in smoke—now, I shouldn’t turn a hair. I like you as I like a work of art. If you were damaged or removed, I should deplore your removal: but I shouldn’t come unbuttoned about it. But, surely, if you feel the same, you can appreciate——” “I do,” said Miss Voile quickly. “But then I’m a girl. Men don’t attract women: they sort of bear them down.” “Ugh, the brutes!” said Rage. “But women are always supposed to attract a man. Of course I know you’re impervious, but when you speak and look so—so naturally, it’s almost impossible to believe that there’s nothing doing.” “You’ll soon get used to that,” said her companion. “When you’ve called me ‘Toby darling’ a few dozen times without a sign of a rise——” “D’you think you could stand it, Toby? I mean, Alfred used to say my voice——” “My sweet,” said Toby, “I could listen to your voice all day . . . listen. . . . It has quality.” With that he lay back on the turf and closed his eyes. Cicely set her teeth. Then— “Toby dear,” she purred, “I left my coat in the car.” “That’s right,” said her squire. “I saw you. Hangin’ over the door.” “If I had it, Toby, I could make it into a pillow and go to sleep—too.” “So you could,” said Toby. There was a silence. “But—but it’s in the car, Toby dear.” “I know,” murmured Rage. “Hangin’ over the door.” He sighed. “If you do go and get it, you might bring me back my pouch. But don’t go on purpose.” There was another silence. “Are you sure,” ventured Miss Voile, “that you aren’t confusing ordinary politeness with love?” “Positive,” said Toby. “You’re proving me, you are. Shove your little face down on the broom, sweetheart, and I’ll tell you a fairy-tale.” A silence, succeeded by a rustling, suggested that Cicely had capitulated. “Go on,” she said presently. “There was once,” said Toby, “a King: and he had a daughter who was as lovely as the dawn. That’s why they called her Sunset. She attracted like anything—especially the Master of the Horse. Well, one day, just as the King was about to sack the Master of the Horse for being attracted, a voice said, ‘You’d better not.’ “‘Who’s that?’ said the King, looking all round the room. “‘I rather think,’ said the Master of the Horse, ‘that it’s my uncle. He said that if ever I was in trouble I was to rub this ring, and I’ve just rubbed it.’ “‘Oh, did he?’ said the King. ‘I mean, have you? Then it was a piece of great presumption. And now push off.’ “‘Very good, sir,’ said the Master of the Horse. ‘Good-bye.’ “‘Good-bye,’ said the King. “‘Good luck,’ said the voice. “‘You shut your face,’ said the King. ‘What’s all that shouting about?’ “Nobody answered him this time, but he had not long to wait. In fact, the door had hardly closed behind the Master of the Horse when it was burst open by the Lord Chamberlain.