llads handed on to me years ago
by my aunt by marriage, one of the Cornish Smallnoses. She claims to
be a direct descendant of that Henry Smallnose whose lucky shot
brought about the events which I am to describe. I say she claims to
be, and one cannot doubt a lady's word in these matters; certainly she
used to speak about Henry with that mixture of pride and extreme
familiarity which comes best from a relation. In all matters not
touching Henry, I feel that I can rely upon her; in its main lines her
narrative is strictly confirmed by Scurvilegs, and she brought to it a
picturesqueness and an appreciation of the true character of Belvane
which is lacking in the other; but her attitude towards Henry
Smallnose was absurd. Indeed she would have had him the hero of the
story. This makes Roger and myself smile. We give him credit for the
first shot, and then we drop him.

Thirdly, Belvane herself. Women like Belvane never die, and I met her
(or a reincarnation of her) at a country house in Shropshire last
summer. I forget what she calls herself now, but I recognised her at
once; and, as I watched her, the centuries rolled away and she and I
were in Euralia, that pleasant country, together. "Stayed to tea and
was very charming." Would she have said that of me, I wonder? But
I'm getting sentimental--Roger's great fault.

These then are my authorities; I consult them, and I ask myself, What
was Wiggs?

Roger speaks of her simply as an attendant upon the Princess. Now we
know that the Princess was seventeen; Wiggs then would be about the
same age--a lady-in-waiting--perhaps even a little older. Why not?
you say. The Lady Wiggs, maid-of-honour to her Royal Highness the
Princess Hyacinth, eighteen and a bit, tall and stately. Since she is
to endanger Belvane's plans, let her be something of a match for the
wicked woman.

Yes, but you would never talk like that if you had heard one of my
aunt's stories. Nor if you had seen Belvane would you think that any
grown-up woman could be a match for her.

Wiggs was a child; I feel it in my bones. In all the legends and
ballads handed down to me by my aunt she appears to me as a little
girl--Alice in a fairy story. Roger or no Roger I must have her a
child.

And even Roger cannot keep up the farce that she is a real
lady-in-waiting. In one place he tells us that she dusts the throne
of the Princess; can you see her ladyship, eighteen last February,
doing that? At