“This here b’iledam, sir,” quoth Mr. Bunkle, caressing the edible in question with the fork of an expert—“this here b’iledam desarves to be ate respectful an’ dooly slow, wi’ thought to every chew an’ a pause betwixt each swaller!” “Forgive me, Mr. Bunkle,” smiled Sir John as he rose from the table, “but, like the chameleon, I could feed on air—for a time at least! Robert, my holly-stick! I think I will call on our Ancient Mr. Dumbrell. Have ye any message, Bob?” “None, sir.” “Why, then, I must invent some. You might step over to Dering later in the day, Robert. Adieu, Mr. Bunkle.” “Dinner at ’arf-past twelve, sir!” sighed Mr. Bunkle, laying down the carving-fork, “roast Sir Loin—’ot!” CHAPTER XXVII TELLETH HOW MR. DERWENT BEGAN HIS WOOING Away strode Sir John across sunny fields, light of foot, treading a springy turf, breathing a fragrant air, swinging his holly-stick and vaulting stiles for the pure joy of it all. Birds piped and chirped from hedge and thicket, larks carolled in the blue, rills bubbled and laughed, and scabious flowers danced and swayed in the gentle wind in tune with the universal gladness. And so in good time came Sir John to High Dering. For there, perched upon his accustomed stile in well-brushed hat and snowy smock-frock, sat the Ancient Person in animated converse with one who leaned gracefully against the gnarled post of the old stile, listening to the Aged One’s talk, but watching Sir John from the shadow of her hat, with eyes quick to heed all the careless, easy grace of him as he came light-treading across the sun-dappled ling. “Rose!” said he, and bared his head; now, beholding her startled, upward glance, how should he know of the eyes that had taken such note of his altered appearance, his plain attire? “Rose,” said he, “thou rose of love!” And stood bare-headed, glad-eyed, to await her greeting. “La, Mr. Derwent,” said she, “you wear strange, small hat, sir, yet methinks it do become you better than your night-cap!” “And yet ’tis a very excellent night-cap!” he retorted. “Eh—eh?” piped the Aged One. “Be ye man an’ woife, then?” “Not yet, Mr. Dumbrell, but——” “Then wot’s she know about your noight-cap, young man, eh—eh? Tell oi that!” “I—I saw it this morning,” explained my lady, rather hastily—“this morning as he leaned out of his chamber window——” “Then, young man, ’ow dare ’ee stick y’r noight-cap out o’ winder in a purty maid’s face? Shamed at ’ee, oi be!” “But I drew it in again, Mr. Dumbrell!” “No matter, young man, oi be shamed at ’ee! Wi’ y’r noight-cap an’ arl!” “It shall not happen again, Mr. Dumbrell.” “Oi be a ol’, ancient man, aye—a aged soul, oi be, an’ oi knaws wot oi knaws an’ oi knaws as us doan’t want ’ee, young man, wi’ your noight-cap, an’ arl!” Here the Aged One glared at the intruder with truculent eye, but Sir John was looking at my lady, of course. “So I have found thee at last, my Rose!” said he softly. “Ha’ you looked for me, sir?”