They just sat down on the dry, grassy bank, opposite his gate, and looked at the blue and white butterflies and the flowers and the green potato-tops through the green-grey garden palings.
And while they sat there Elfrida had an idea—so sudden and so good that it made her jump. But she said nothing, and Edred said—
“Pinch the place hard, and if it’s still there you’ll kill it perhaps”—for he thought she had jumped because she had been bitten by an ant.
When they had finished looking at the butterflies and the red roses and the green-growing things, they looked long and steadily at old Beale, and, of course, he awoke, as people always do if you look at them long enough and hard enough. And he got up, rather shaking, and put his hand to his forehead, and said—
“My lord——”
“How are you?” said Elfrida. “We haven’t found the treasure yet.”
“But ye will, ye will,” said old Beale. “Come into the house now; or will ye come round along to the arbour and have a drink of milk?”
“We’d as soon stay here,” said Edred—they had come through the gate now, and Edred was patting the brown spaniel, while Elfrida stroked the squarish cat. “Mrs. Honeysett said you knew all the stories.”
“Ah,” said old Beale, “a fine girl, Mrs. Honeysett. Her father had Sellinge Farm, where the fairies churn the butter for the bride so long as there’s no cross words. They don’t ever get too much to do, them fairies.” He chuckled, sighed, and said—
“I know a power of tales. And I know, always I do, which it is that people want. What you’re after’s the story of the East House. Isn’t it now? Is the old man a-failing of his wits, or isn’t he?”