she waked at intervals to small realities. One of these
was Farmer Jones's Bull. Not that she had more than a timid hope of
seeing that celebrated quadruped himself. She was, however,
undisguisedly anxious to do so; inquiring after him; the chance of his
proximity; the possibility of cultivating his intimate acquaintance. No
other bull would serve her purpose, which was to take back to Dave, who
filled much of her thoughts, an authentic report of Farmer Jones's.

"Dave must be a very nice little boy," said Gwen. "Anyhow, he's pretty.
And Dolly's a darling." This may have been partly due to the way in
which Dolly had overwhelmed the young lady--the equivalent, as it were,
of a kind of cannibalism, or perhaps octopus-greed--which had stood in
the way of a maturer friendship with her brother. However, there had
really been very little time.

"You see, my dear," said the old lady, "if I was to _see_ Farmer Jones's
Bull, I could tell the dear child about him in London. Isn't that a
Bull?" But it wasn't, though possibly a relation he would not have
acknowledged.

"I think Blencorn might make a point of Farmer Jones's Bull," said Gwen.
"Blencorn!"

"Yes, my lady."

"I want to stop at Strides Cottage, coming back. _You_ know--Mrs.
Marrable's!"

"Yes, my lady."

"Well--isn't that Farmer Jones's farm, on the left, before we get there?
Close to the Spinney." Now Mr. Blencorn knew perfectly well. But he was
not going to admit that he knew, because farms were human affairs, and
he was on the box. He referred to his satellite, the coachboy, whose
information enabled him to say:--"Yes, my lady, on the left." Gwen then
said:--"Very good, then, Blencorn, stop at the gate, and Benjamin can
go in and say we've come to see the Bull. Go on!"

"I wonder," said old Mrs. Prichard, with roused interest, "if that is
Davy's granny I wrote to for him. Such a lot he has to say about her!
But it was Mrs.... Mrs. Thrale Dave went to stop with."

"Mrs. Marrable--Granny Marrable--is Mrs. Thrale's mother. A nice old
lady. Rather younger than you, and awfully strong. She can walk nine
miles." In Rumour's diary, the exact number of a pedestrian's miles is
vouched for, as well as the exact round number of thousands Park-Laners
have _per annum_. "I dare say we shall see her," Gwen continued. "I hope
so, because I promised my cousin Clo to give her this parcel with my own
hands. Only she may be out.... Aren't you getting very tired, dear Mrs.
Pi