"Who in the world," Miss Macroyd suddenly demanded, "is the person
floundering about in the birch woods?"

"Perhaps the soprano," Verrian returned, hardily.

Bushwick detached himself from a group of girls near by and intercepted
any response from Miss Macroyd to Verrian by calling to her before he
came up, "Are you going to be one of the enemy, Miss Macroyd?"

"No, I think I will be neutral." She added, "Is there going to be any
such thing as an umpire?"

"We hadn't thought of that. There could be. The office could be
created; but, you know, it's the post of danger."

Verrian joined the group that Bushwick has left. He found a great
scepticism as to the combat, mixed with some admiration for the castle,
and he set himself to contest the prevalent feeling. What was the matter
with a snow-fight? he demanded. It would be great fun. Decidedly he was
going in for it. He revived the drooping sentiment in its favor, and
then, flown with his success, he went from group to group and couple to
couple, and animated all with his zeal, which came, he hardly knew
whence; what he pretended to the others was that they were rather bound
not to let Mrs. Westangle's scheme fall through. Their doubts vanished
before him, and the terms of the battle were quickly arranged. He said
he had read of one of those mediaeval flower-fights, and he could tell
them how that was done. Where it would not fit into the snow-fight, they
could trust to inspiration; every real battle was the effect of
inspiration.