noticing
me or my red rose. I tried to make myself little, and the rose big, as
if it were in the foreground and I in the perspective, but the
procession moved on and nobody who could possibly have been the Dragon
wasted a glance on me.

Toward the tail end, however, I spied two men coming, followed by a
small bronze figure in "native" dress of some sort. One of the two was
tall and tanned, and thirty-five or so. The other--I had a bet with
myself that he was my Dragon. But it was like "betting on a certainty,"
which is one of the few things that's dull and dishonest at the same
time. Some men are born dragons, while others only achieve dragonhood,
or have it thrust upon them by the gout. This one was born a dragon, and
exactly what I'd imagined him, or even worse, and I was glad that I
could conscientiously hate him in peace.

The other man had the walk so many Englishmen have, as if he were
tracking lions across a desert. I quite admire that gait, for it looks
brave and un-self-conscious; but the old thing labelled "Dragon" marched
along as if trampling on prostrate Bengalese. A red-hot Tory, of
course--that went without saying--of the type that thinks Radicals
deserve hanging. In his eyes that stony glare which English people have
when they're afraid someone may be wanting to know them; chicken-claws
under his chin, like you see in the necks of elderly bull dogs; a
snobbish nose; a bad-tempered mouth; age anywhere between sixty and a
hundred. Altogether one of those men who must write to the _Times_ or go
mad. Dost like the picture?

Both these men, who were walking together, looked at me rather hard; and
I attributed the Dragon's failure to stop at the Sign of the Rose to the
silly vanity which forbade his wearing "specs" like a sensible old
gentleman. Accordingly, with laudable presence of mind, I did what
seemed the only thing to do.

I stepped forward, and addressed him with the modest firmness Madame de
Maluet's pupils are taught in "deportment lessons." "I beg your pardon,
but aren't you Sir Lionel Pendragon?"

"I am Lionel Pendragon," said the other man--the quite young man.

Mother, you could have knocked me down with the shadow of a moth-eaten
feather!

They both took off their travelling caps. The real Dragon's was in
decent taste. The Mock Dragon's displayed an offensive chess-board
check.

"Have you come to say--that Miss Lethbridge has been prevented from
meeting me?" asked the real one--the