"I shouldn't put it back again if I were you. You see," I went on earnestly, "everybody will know you're a girl, Judy dear." "Why, Punch?" She drew aside the dust coat and revealed the wide Pierrot trousers she was wearing. "Priceless," I admitted. "But what I really love are your feet." She looked concernedly at her little, high-heeled shoes. I stooped to flick the dust from their patent leather. "Thank you, Punch. What shall I do about my hair, then?" "Wear it in a pig-tail. I'll plait it for you. It'll be worth another sovereign to the Bananas." "If you put it like that--" she said slowly. "I do, Judy." If the suggestion was not prompted by motives which were entirely disinterested, I think I may be forgiven. "I say, Judy," I said a little later, pausing unnecessarily in my work, and making pretence to comb with my fingers the tresses as yet ungathered into the plait. "Yes? What a long time you are!" Well, there was a knot. She tried to look round into my face at that, but I vigorously unplaited about two inches, which seemed to satisfy her. For me, I thought of Penelope and her web and the wooers, and smiled. "Well, what is it, Punch?" "About the mask." "No good!" "But, Judy--" For the next two minutes I did a little listening. When she paused for breath: "Have some ham," I suggested. "Bother the ham! Do you hear what I say?" "I heard you bother the ham." "Before that?" "Something about a mask, was it?" "Give me back my hair," she demanded. "No, no," I said hastily, "not that! I won't ask again." "Promise." "I promise." When I had finished the plaiting, I tied the ends with a piece of ribbon which she produced, kissed them, and sat down in the grass at her feet. We had oceans of time, for the fete did not begin till two. But we agreed there must be a rehearsal of some kind. "What do you know about yourself, Punch?" "I have a foggy recollection of domestic differences." "You used to beat me cruelly." "Ah, but you had a nagging tongue, Judy. I can hear your defiant 'wootle' now." Her lips parted in a smile at the reminiscence, and before they closed again she had slipped something between them. The next instant the wood rang with a regular hurricane of toots and wootles. "Oh, Judy!" "Wootle?" she said inquiringly. "Rather! But hush--you'll wake the echoes." "And why not? They ought to be up and about by now." I shook my head. "They're a sleepy folk," I said; "they get so little rest. The day is noisy enough, but at night, what with dogs baying the moon, and the nightjars calling, when owls do cry--" "When owls do cry--" "--and the earnest but mistaken chanticleer, they have a rotten time. Poor echoes! And they wake very easily here." "Don't they everywhere?" "Oh, no! I know some that are very heavy sleepers. In fact, it's hopeless to try and wake them without the welkin." "The welkin?"