“Love-affairs are tedious repetitions,” said Ferdinand. “You play with your new partner precisely the same game you played with the old: the same preliminary skirmishes, the same assault, the same feints of resistance, the same surrender, the same subsequent disenchantment. They’re all the same, down to the very same scenes, words, gestures, suspicions, vows, exactions, recriminations, and final break-ups. It’s a delusion of inexperience to suppose that in changing your mistress you change the sport. It’s the same trite old book, that you’ve read and read in different editions, until you’re sick of the very mention of it. To the deuce with love-affairs. But there’s such a thing as rational conversation, with no sentimental nonsense. Now, I’ll not deny that I should rather like to have an occasional bit of rational conversation with that red-haired woman we met the other day in the park. Only, the devil of it is, she never appears.” “And then, besides, her hair isn’t red,” added Hilary. “I wonder how you can talk such folly,” said Ferdinand. “C’est mon métier, Uncle. You should answer me! according to it. Her hair’s not red. What little red there’s in it, it requires strong sunlight to bring out. In shadow her hair’s a sort of dull brownish-yellow,” Hilary persisted. “You’re colour-blind,” retorted Ferdinand. “But I won’t quarrel with you. The point is, she never appears. So how can I have my bits of rational conversation with her?” “How, indeed?” echoed Hilary, with pathos. “And therefore you’re invoking storm and whirlwind. But hang a horseshoe over your bed to-night, turn round three times as you extinguish your candle, and let your last thought before you fall asleep be the thought of a newt’s liver and a blind man’s dog; and it’s highly possible she will appear to-morrow.” I don’t know whether Ferdinand Augustus accomplished the rites that Hilary prescribed, but it is certain that she did appear on the morrow: not by the pool of the carp, but in quite another region of Bellefontaine, where Ferdinand Augustus was wandering at hazard, somewhat disconsolately. There was a wide green meadow, sprinkled with buttercups and daisies; and under a great tree, at this end of it, he suddenly espied her. She was seated on the moss, stroking with one finger-tip a cockchafer that was perched upon another, and regarding the little monster with intent meditative eyes. She wore a frock the bodice part of which was all drooping creamy lace; she had thrown her hat and gloves aside; her hair was in some slight, soft disarray; her loose sleeve had fallen back, disclosing a very perfect wrist and the beginning of a smooth white arm. Altogether she made an extremely pleasing picture, sweetly, warmly feminine. Ferdinand Augustus stood still, and watched her for an instant before he spoke. Then—— “I have come to intercede with you on behalf of your carp,” he announced. “They are rending heaven with complaints of your desertion.”