"Why ever didn't they clean you up a bit at the house?" the little boy asked. "Your sister was kind enough to suggest it----" "Which sister?" "Miss----" he hardly liked to say "M. B.," and paused. "Big or little? There's only two." "Rather big, I should say." "Oh, that's Mary--did she bump into you?" Eloquent looked hopelessly puzzled, and the boy hastened to add: "She's a bit of a gawk, you know, and awfully strong. I thought she might have charged into you and knocked you over . . . she wouldn't mean to do it . . ." "I must be going," said Eloquent, "good-evening," and he hastened on his way. "Sorry you couldn't stop to tea," the small boy called after him hospitably. "I'm Ger, so you'll know me again when you see me." The child stood for a minute looking after the stranger in the hope that he would turn his head, and nod or wave to him in friendly farewell, but he did neither. Ger gave a little sigh, and trotted up the drive towards home. Outside the gates Eloquent paused and looked back at them. Brought from Verona generations ago, they were a perfect example of a perfect period. Richly decorative, various in design, light and flowing in form, the delicate curves broke into actual leafage, sweeping and free as nature's own. The Ffolliots were proud of their gates. He gazed at them admiringly, and then, like Ger, he sighed. "Why," he muttered, "why should they have had all this always? I wonder if it's the constant passing through gates like this that helps to make them what they are." CHAPTER IV REFLECTION AND ENLIGHTENMENT Eloquent found that M. B. Ffolliot had not deceived him as to the nearness of the village. A few yards to the left, over the bridge, and the long, irregular street lay in front of him; the river on one side; the houses, various in size and shape, but alike in one respect, that the most modern of them was over two hundred years old. He knew that his aunt's house was at the very end of the street and furthest from the bridge, and that Redmarley village was nearly a mile in length. Yet he did not hurry. He walked very slowly in the middle of the muddy road, resolved to marshal and tabulate his impressions as was his orderly wont. But in this instance his impressions refused to conform to either process, and remained mutinously chaotic. He found that, in thinking of Mary, he unconsciously called her "that girl," whereas such maidens as he hitherto had encountered were always "young ladies." He didn't know many "young ladies," but those he did know he there and then called into review and compared with Mary Ffolliot. They were all of them much better dressed, he was certain of that. But he was equally assured that not one of them would have forborne to laugh at his plight, as he sat abject and ridiculous in the very largest puddle in Redmarley woods. She had not laughed.