“Puck, I think,” said Senhouse. “Robin Goodfellow.” He had recovered himself in that breathing-space. “How splendid of you both. Come and see my ship. I'm in moorings now, you know. I've cut piracy.” “And preach to the hares,” said Chevenix. “We saw you at it. What does his lordship say?” “His lordship, who, in spite of that, is an excellent man, likes it. His lordship was pleased to catch me, as you did, at it, and to suggest that he should bring out a party of her ladyship's friend to see me perform. I told him that I was his hireling, no doubt, but that my friends here were amateurs who didn't care to say their prayers in public. His lordship begged pardon, and I bet you he's a gentleman. Nearly everybody is, when you come to know him.” Chevenix revelled in him. “Still the complete moralist, old Jack!” he cheered. “I'll back you for a bushel of nuts to have it out with Charon as you ferry across. And here, for want of _us_, you turn to the hares! Sancie, you and I must get season tickets to Sarum, or he'll forget his tongue.” Sanchia, overcome by shyness, had nothing to do with this brisk interchange. She walked between the contestants like a child out with her betters. Senhouse led them down the scarped side of a hill into his own valley; rounding a bluff, they suddenly came upon his terraces and creeper-covered hut. The place was a blaze of field flowers; each terrace a thick carpet of colour. In front of them the valley wound softly to the south, and melted into the folds of the hills; to the right, upon a wooded slope, in glades between the trees, goats were at pasture. “Goats! Robinson Crusoe!” Chevenix pointed them out. “_Dic mihi, Damoeta, cuium pecus? an Meliboei?_ Are they yours, Senhouse?” “I drink them, and make cheese. I learned how to do it at Udine ages ago. You shall have some.” Sanchia saw them. The sun gleamed upon fawn and white, and made black shine like jet. Deep in the thickets they heard the bell of one, cropping musically. Senhouse led them to his verandah, which was shadowed from the heat, made them sit on mats, and served them with milk and bread in wooden bowls and trenchers. He was barefooted, which Sanchia, must by all means be--for the day: divining her, as he only could, he knelt without invitation and untied her shoes. “Stockings too, I'll bet you!” was what Chevenix thought; but he was wrong. Senhouse went into his cabin, and returned with sandals. Sanchia had taken off her own stockings. They were sandals to fit her. “I made them for Mary,” he explained; “but she preferred boots.” “Most of 'em do,” Chevenix said, “in their hearts,” and Senhouse quietly rejoined, “So I've found out.” Chevenix, the tactful, withdrew himself after a civil interval. He said that he should go goat-stalking, and, instead, went for a ramble, well out of sight. Then he found a place after his mind, smoked his pipe, and had a nap. The pair, left to themselves, resumed with hardly an effort their ancient footing.