‘It is a dog’s name. But you may call your dog Bill, or Joe, or Paul, or Peter. I don’t think that makes any difference. I would sooner have some dogs for my namesakes than some men.’ ‘Dibb, dear,’ said Daphne, turning sharply upon the victim of her folly, the long-suffering, patient Martha. ‘What’s the time?’ She had a watch of her own, a neat little gold hunter; but it was rarely in going order for two consecutive days, and she was generally dependent on the methodical Dibb for all information as to the flight of time. ‘A quarter to five.’ ‘Then we must be going home instantly. How could you let me stay so long, you foolish girl? I am sure it must be more than an hour’s walk to the town, and we promised poor dear Toby to be home by six.’ ‘It isn’t my fault,’ remarked Miss Dibb; ‘I should have been glad to go ever so long ago, if you had thought fit.’ ‘Hurry up, then, Dibb dear. Put away your crochet. Have you quite done with my block?’ to the unknown. ‘Thank you muchly. And now my box? Those go into the basket. Thanks, awfully,’ as he helped her to pack the tumblers, corkscrew, plates, and knives, which had served for their primitive repast. ‘And now we will wish you good-day—Mr.—Nero.’ ‘On no account. I am going to carry that basket back to Fontainebleau for you.’ ‘All along that dusty high road. We couldn’t think of such a thing; could we, Martha?’ ‘I don’t know that my opinion is of much account,’ said Martha stiffly. ‘Don’t, you dear creature!’ cried Daphne, darting at her, and hugging her affectionately. ‘Don’t try to be ill-tempered, for you can’t do it. The thing is an ignominious failure. You were created to be good-natured, and nice, and devoted—especially to me.’ ‘You know how fond I am of you,’ murmured Martha reproachfully; ‘and you take a mean advantage of me when you go on so.’ ‘How am I going on? Is it very dreadful to let a gentleman carry a heavy basket for me?’ ‘A gentleman!’ muttered Martha, with a supercilious glance at the stranger’s well-worn velveteen. He was standing a little way off, out of hearing, taking a last long look at the valley. ‘Yes; and every inch a gentleman, though his coat is shabby, and though he may be as poor as Job, and though he makes game of me!’ protested Daphne with conviction. ‘Have your own way,’ replied Martha. ‘I generally do,’ answered Daphne. And so they went slowly winding downhill in the westering sunshine, all among the gray rocks on which the purple shadows were deepening, the warm umber lights glowing, while the rosy evening light came creeping up in the distant west, and the voice of an occasional bird, so rare in this Gallic wood, took a vesper sound in the summer stillness.