h us.
Each minute he may come, and I go to get ready a stew of hedgehog, for
Gentile words I must use to you, who are a Gorgio. And so good day to
you, my lady," ended the old hag, again becoming the truly respectable
pew-opener. Then she dropped a curtsey--whether ironical or not, Miss
Greeby could not tell--and disappeared into the tent, followed by the
white cat, who haunted her footsteps like the ghost she declared it to
be.

Clearly there was nothing more to be learned from Mother Cockleshell,
who, in the face of her visitor's doubts, had become hostile, so Miss
Greeby, dismissing the whole episode as over and done with, turned her
attention toward finding Lambert. With her bludgeon under her arm and
her hands in the pockets of her jacket, she stalked through the camp in
quite a masculine fashion, not vouchsafing a single reply to the
greetings which the gypsies gave her. Shortly she saw the artist
chatting with Chaldea at the beginning of the path which led to his
cottage. Beside them, on the grass, squatted a queer figure.

It was that of a little man, very much under-sized, with a hunch back
and a large, dark, melancholy face covered profusely with black hair. He
wore corduroy trousers and clumsy boots--his feet and hands were
enormous--together with a green coat and a red handkerchief which was
carelessly twisted round his hairy throat. On his tangled
locks--distressingly shaggy and unkempt--he wore no hat, and he looked
like a brownie, grotesque, though somewhat sad. But even more did he
resemble an ape--or say the missing link--and only his eyes seemed
human. These were large, dark and brilliant, sparkling like jewels under
his elf-locks. He sat cross-legged on the sward and hugged a fiddle, as
though he were nursing a baby. And, no doubt, he was as attached to his
instrument as any mother could be to her child. It was not difficult for
Miss Greeby to guess that this weird, hairy dwarf was the Servian gypsy
Kara, of whom Lambert had spoken. She took advantage of the knowledge to
be disagreeable to the girl.

"Is this your husband?" asked Miss Greeby amiably.

Chaldea's eyes flashed and her cheeks grew crimson. "Not at all," she
said contemptuously. "I have no rom."

"Ah, your are not married?"

"No," declared Chaldea curtly, and shot a swift glance at Lambert.

"She is waiting for the fairy prince," said that young gentleman
smiling. "And he is coming to this camp almost immediately."

"Ishmael Hear