"You mustn't go to bed at once," I said, pushing back my chair. "It's bad for the digestion. Sit by the fire a little, as you did before. Wait a moment. I'll give you a cigarette." I settled her amid cushions, put out the candles, and struck the red fire into flames. "But where will you sit, Adam?" "I shall lean elegantly against the chimney-piece and tell you a fairy story." "I'm all for the story, but I think you'd better be a child and sit on the hearthrug, too. There's plenty of room." "A child," said I, sitting down by her side. "My dear, do you realize that I'm as old as the Cotswold Hills." "There now, Adam. And so am I." "No," I said firmly, "certainly not." "But--" "I don't care. You're not. Goddesses are immortal and their youth dies not." "I suppose I ought to get up and curtsey." "If you do, I shall have to rise and make you a leg, so please don't." For a moment she smiled into the fire. Then: "I wonder if two people have ever sat here before, as we're sitting now?" "Many a time," said I. "Runaway couples, you know. I expect the old wood walls think we're another pair." "They can't see, though." "No. Born blind. That's why they hear so well. And they never forget. These four"--with a sweep of my cigarette--"have long memories of things, some sweet, some stern, some full of tears, and some again so mirthful that they split their panelled sides with merriment whenever they call them to mind." "And here's another to make them smile." "Smile? Yes. Wise, whimsical, fatherly smiles, especially wise. They think we're lovers, remember." "I forgot. Well, the sooner they find out their mis--" "Hush!" said I. "Walls love lovers. Have pity and don't undeceive them. It'd break the poor old fellows' hearts. That one's looking rather black already. "She laughed in spite of herself. Then: "But they haven't got any hearts to break." "Of course they have. The best in the world, too. Hearts of oak. Now you must make up for it. Come along." I altered my tone. "Chaste and beautiful one, dost thou realize that at this rate we shall reach Gretna next Tuesday week?" "So soon, Jack?"--languishingly. "Glorious," said I: "that is, aye, mistress. Remember, I have six spare axles disguised as golf clubs." "But what of my father? His grey hairs--" "When I last saw thine aged sire, pipkin, three postboys were engaged in sawing him out of a window, through which he should never have attempted to climb. The angle of his chaise suggested that one of the hind wheels was, to put it mildly, somewhat out of the true. The fact that, before we started, I myself withdrew its linchpin goes to support this theory." "My poor father! Master Adam, I almost find it in my heart to hate you."