“This is the lion’s den, Iris!”
“Well, I have killed lions, and tigers too, in twelve years’ wandering through hell.”
“But this is the den of the king of lions, Iris! This is the den of the lion of England!”
“Love smiles at lions. Love can never be a clown, but a lion can wear an ass’s skin. Darling, I’m no good at natural history, but I have studied history.”
“You couldn’t mock it so unless you loved it very deeply. You are like a child, dear Iris, daring her father and mother. These trees——”
“But I laugh at the trees of Sutton Marle! I always did, I never could play with them, not even believe in them. I tell you, there is no tree but Harrod’s, my servant, and my master and my playmate tree, Harrod’s. Oh, how Harrod’s hates Sir Maurice! It makes me afraid, to think how Harrod’s hates Maurice Harpenden. Let him beware as he walks beneath it!”
Then the trees parted from above us and we came into an open place where stood a fountain, and round the fountain we swept a circle and came before the doors of a long white manor house. De Travest’s car stood there. As we drew up beside it the doors of the white house opened and a fat old man stood at the head of the steps. His hair was like his house, quite white.
“Truble, we will go round by the garden,” Iris said.
The fat old butler looked very gravely down at Iris. She was like a small knight at the foot of the broad steps, he a kindly old dragon up above. Oh, he looked so grave!
Iris said to me: “Mr. Truble is my oldest friend. He is a very nice man. Truble, what have you to say to that?”