wrote feverishly, "The subject of this memoir first saw the light
in the middle of the night. It was twenty to eleven. His pa was a
parson, but he was not his pa's son, and never went to heaven."
There was the sound of a train, and presently white smoke
appeared, rising laboriously through the heavy air. It distracted
her, and for about a quarter of an hour she sat perfectly still,
doing nothing. At last she pushed the spoilt paper aside, took
afresh piece, and was beginning to write, "On May the 14th,
1842," when there was a crunch on the gravel, and a furious voice
said, "I am sorry for Flea Thompson."

"I daresay I am sorry for him too," said the lady; her voice was
languid and pleasant. "Who is he?"

"Flea's a liar, and the next time we meet he'll be a football."
Off slipped a sodden ulster. He hung it up angrily upon a peg:
the arbour provided several.

"But who is he, and why has he that disastrous name?"

"Flea? Fleance. All the Thompsons are named out of Shakespeare.
He grazes the Rings."

"Ah, I see. A pet lamb."

"Lamb! Shepherd!"

"One of my Shepherds?"

"The last time I go with his sheep. But not the last tune he sees