after the flurry o' rain, but by the look o'
the sky it won't last; and altogether it seems as if we'd have our
trouble for our pains unless you and the young lady'd consent to help us
out. If you'll allow me to say so, sir, in costume you'd be the Ideal
Thing."

For an instant Sir S. looked as haughty as a dethroned king. Then the
funny side struck him, and he laughed. "You flatter us," he said; "but
I'm sorry we can't do what you ask. Perhaps your people will turn up,
after all."

The poor man looked bitterly disappointed, almost as if he would cry,
and so did the other, who had been listening with enormously large red
ears like handles on a terra-cotta urn. Both men were wet with the rain,
which had fallen sharply and only just stopped as if to welcome us over
the border. The one who had spoken turned sadly away, without venturing
to urge his point (Sir S. isn't the sort of person strange men would
take liberties with), but in retreating he threw one agonized look at
me. I couldn't resist it.

"Oh, _do_ let's stand for the bride and groom!" I pleaded. And
foreseeing a battle the photographer hastily retired into the background
to let us fight it out. "It would be such fun. I should love it. You
know, I've always vowed to be married at Gretna Green, if at all. And
this would be next best to the real thing."

I gazed up at Sir S. as enticingly as I knew how, and there was a look
in his eyes that frightened me a little. I was afraid I had made him
angry; yet it wasn't a look of crossness. I could not tell what it
meant, but his voice in answering sounded kind. As usual, when he has
been particularly grave, he smiled that nice smile which begins in his
eyes and suddenly lights up his face.

"You'd better wait for the 'real thing' and the real man," said he. "Be
patient for a few years. You've plenty of time."

"I may _never_ get another such good chance," I mourned. "You _are_
unkind! It would amuse me so much, and it wouldn't hurt you."

"Do you think that's why I say no?" he asked. "You think I'm afraid?"

"Yes, I do," I insisted. "You're too proud to do what will make you look
silly--because you're the great Somerled."

"By Jove!" he said, and his face flushed up. "If you say much more I
will do it--and hang everything!"

"I _do_ say much more!" I cried. "_Much_ more--and hang everything."

"Very well, then," said he. "Your blood be on your own head."

"My head's red enough already!" I giggled. "Oh, wha